


Duck You

by copyallcatsandacrobats (ordinaryalchemy)



Series: Hunting Season [2]
Category: Psych
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emergency room, F/M, Humor, M/M, Porn, Threesome - F/M/M, a surprisingly small amount of ducks are given, juliet is a bamf, lassy has had it up to here, many discoveries, moderate casework, right back where they started from, shawn doesn't know when to quit, showdown, uncool language, uncool violence, what does it mean when three detectives don't notice something directly in front of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 68,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinaryalchemy/pseuds/copyallcatsandacrobats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn, Juliet, and Lassiter are trying a thing, but they don't know what the duck they're doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Not-So-Dread Pirate

**Author's Note:**

> As before, all the thanks and zero wanks to sarcasticsra for beta-reading this for me, catching some typos, providing a few suggestions, and giving this her stamp of approval. I have made some changes after she sent it back, so anything that's awkwardly phrased or whatever would be my goof.

_When it seems they're heading for the final curtain_  
_Good deduction never fails, that's for certain_  
_The worst of messes_  
_Become successes_  
—[Duck Tales Theme Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=boOsfs903tM)

**DECEMBER 2008**

  
Juliet O'Hara sat calmly in the waiting area of the emergency room, filling out paperwork and waiting for Carlton to call her back. She had left him a message that simply said he should get a hold of her when he could, and she was grateful that her voice hadn't jumped around or that she hadn't said more, worrying him before they were able to talk. She tried to decide how to tell him about what had happened while she ticked boxes in the Medical History portion of the forms. It was almost one o'clock in the morning, but she wasn't at all hungry, even though she'd forgotten her planned late dinner entirely when she'd picked up her phone four hours earlier and Gus had started to talk.

Her phone started to vibrate and she flipped it open without glancing at the display. “O'Hara,” she greeted slowly. Speaking slowly helped keep everyone calm—it was something most cops picked up on very quickly.

“Juliet. What's wrong?”

She set her pen down and closed her eyes, smiling a little at Carlton's clipped tone; of course he had heard what was in her voice in her message, and he'd known what it had meant. “Shawn's okay,” she said, making that the first thing he heard, and then amended that: “He's going to be okay.”

She heard him exhale very softly, and could picture him closing his eyes as well. “From?” he asked.

She opened her eyes and shook her head helplessly, trying hard not to laugh exasperatedly, or hysterically, or at all. “Don't laugh. I mean, not that you would, but... he has a head wound. They're stapling the back of his skull right now.”

“And that's hilarious because...?”

She pressed her lips together for a moment and glanced at Gus, who was worriedly trying to peek underneath a thick bandage on his forearm. “Shawn and Gus were in a shipyard,” she began, and Gus rolled his eyes. “They were investigating pirates.”

“Smugglers,” Gus corrected, in a long-suffering voice. “ _Long Shawn Silver_ is the one that kept insisting they were pirates.”

“Right,” she said. “Um... at approximately seven-thirty tonight, they were searching one of the boats; one of the suspects saw them, launched the boom at them, and when Gus said, 'Duck!', instead of... of getting down... Shawn said... 'Where?!' and it... quacked him in the back of the head.” That was it—she had to hold the phone slightly away from her face so that Carlton wouldn't hear her squeak with the effort to hold on to her giggles. She'd thought she could hold on, but her terror at Gus's frantic call hadn't yet left her, and hearing Carlton's steady voice made her miss him, and want his no-nonsense presence, and she was so exasperated, and anxious, and relieved, that she had to finally let it out and either laugh or cry. She made eye-contact with Gus and held up the phone, her eyes pleading while one hand covered her mouth.

Gus sighed and took her phone. “Lassiter, it's Gus. ...yes, she's just a little shook up—they won't let her see Shawn yet. ...Very sure. He was only unconscious for a few minutes, and he was more upset about getting blood in his stupid hair than the smugglers making a break for it. The Chief and a bunch of others are down there now, and we know who at least one of them is, so some black and whites are heading to his last known address.”

Juliet had managed to calm herself down and drink the rest of the water in her nearby bottle, and she gestured for her phone back. “It's me,” she said. “Sorry about that. It's been a really long day and—”

“It's fine, just take care of yourself,” Carlton said. He paused. “I really wish I could come out, but I'm in the middle of a big case that's just about to break, and if everything's ultimately going to be fine—if Shawn's okay and both of you are safe, I can't really justify—”

“I understand,” she said quickly. “Really. I just wanted to let you know what happened, and that he's okay, and... I just wanted to hear your voice. When do you think we can see you?”

“I'm not sure.” He sounded disapproving, and she could easily imagine him frowning. When he sighed, she could see him rubbing the spot on his forehead between his eyes. “It depends on what happens with this case. Even if you came here, I'm not home much right now. I can let you know.”

“Please do.”

“All right, I will.” He paused. “When you see Shawn, tell him he's an idiot. No—make fun of his hair for me. Tell him he's going to have a scar and it's going to be bald there forever.”

“Wow, traumatizing.”

“He deserves it. 'Where!'” he mimicked. “Only Shawn _I-Love-Bunnies-And-Ducks_ Spencer would get cracked in the back of the head on a smuggler's ship because he got excited about being a goddamn pirate. Guster should get a mental check for going into business with him. Or hazard pay.”

Juliet glanced at Gus. “Carlton says you should get hazard pay for following Shawn around.”

Gus made a face at the bandage on his arm. “Oh, I'm putting in for it. And I'm the one that does the Psych finances: I'm getting a bonus, and it's coming out of his smoothie fund.”

.

Lassiter had to wait until noon, all the while resenting time zone differences, before he could call a gift and delivery place in Santa Barbara. Juliet had called him back just before six, telling him that Shawn's father had been allowed in to see him just after they finished putting the staples in, and Henry had relayed to her and Guster that the doctor had wanted to keep Shawn at least twenty-four hours for observation, since it had been a pretty bad crack. “Good luck to them,” she had sighed. “I called the Chief and she gave me the day off, so Gus and I are going to try to tag team with the nurses to make sure he actually stays. He hates hospitals, and Henry said he's up and left before.”

Lassiter had almost responded that he shouldn't be so reckless, but that would have been the definition of wasted breath, especially to her, when she'd been sitting in a waiting room and worrying about his dumb ass for going on five hours. He was sure Henry would spend the next week or so reading him the riot act, but Shawn had gotten uncommonly good at tuning out his father over the years. Despite becoming quite... close... with both Juliet and Shawn in the last few months, Lassiter wasn't sure what his place was when it came to serious scolding; there was no way he wasn't going to say _something_ , though. Not when she'd started with _he's okay_ , indicating that something worrisome had happened, and then switched to _he's going to be okay_ , meaning he wasn't, at least not yet, and it had taken several minutes for Lassiter to feel like he could fully unclench his jaw again. Shawn was so overconfident of himself, and so stubborn, and so foolhardy, yet he hated to be told all of those things, probably because he knew all of it, but didn't care. Or maybe he just didn't like being reminded that there were people who cared about him so much that the only possible response to his antics was to yell at him and tell him he was an idiot in lieu of shaking the living shit out of him. The next time he saw them there would definitely be at least a little yelling. In the meantime...

“Good morning, Santa Barbara Custom Gifts,” a female voice greeted. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” he said. "I'm calling from out of state, but I have a—uh—a friend. In a local hospital there." He cleared his throat. "I need to know if you can deliver something today."

“Yes sir, we certainly can,” she said. “What did you have in mind? We have two different fully customizable balloon and flower bundles—”

He briefly considered sending Shawn balloons that said something like _#1 Private Dick Head_ , but he would probably enjoy that too much. “No, no—do you have candy?”

“Absolutely. Chocolates?”

“It doesn't really matter,” he said. “Just a lot of it. A colossal amount, if you have it.”

“Well, we have a two-pound box of peanut clusters, or a three-pound box of caramel turtles. Or, if you mean _really_ colossal, we have a ten-pound tub of Gummy Bears.”

Shawn, shouting across a crowded airport baggage claim: _If I took a bite out of God's head..._ “That'll do,” Lassiter said. “And I need a stupid card.”

The girl paused. “Sir?”

“A stupid card,” he repeated. “Something juvenile, immature—the more moronic, the better. The sort of get-well card someone in junior high would appreciate.”

“Ummm...” she trailed off, and there was a short pause while she presumably looked around or checked a database. “We have Stewie Griffin, _'I demand you feel better immediately'_ on the cover, _'So that I may kill you later'_ on the inside.”

He didn't know who Stewie Griffin was, but that sounded just about perfect. “That will work,” he said.

“Name of the recipient?”

“Shawn Spencer.”

There was another pause, wherein he could faintly hear a keyboard. “Any message for the inside of the card?”

He told her. “And this will be delivered today?”

“Yes, sir—before three o'clock at the latest.”

He gave her his credit card information, hung up, rubbed his eyes. He'd been awake for almost thirty-six hours, and his dark and cool bedroom was calling to him, but he had found in the last few months that the king-sized bed he'd gotten just after his sister's wedding was far too empty when he was the only one in it. Twenty minutes later he was idly comparing prices for flights to California, though he didn't book anything just yet.

.

It wasn't fair, Shawn thought, as he glared at the blank TV screen. First he got his head smashed, then he had to have staples and they'd had to shave most of the back of his head, and then the stupid hospital jerks refused to let Jules see him, since she was 'only' his girlfriend—they'd let his father come instead, who had shouted for almost half an hour about how irresponsible and reckless he was, how sloppy his procedure was, he could have gotten himself killed and did get himself and his best friend injured. Henry had also dug in the fact that Juliet had seemed like she was using all of her will to keep herself together, and that it was his fault she looked terrible, because he was supposed to be smart but didn't ever really _think_. His dad's ranting had made a totally different part of his head ache—and on top of that, he hadn't even gotten to see a duck.

Henry finally left around nine, just after official visiting hours started and they finally let Juliet come in. Gus had come with her, but he'd left almost immediately, saying something about bringing Jules coffee and some food, while she gripped Shawn's hand and gave him the sort of look that he couldn't quite look at—the one that was furious and glad and full of love, filling him with the sort of shame his dad's nagging had never once been able to incite. She really didn't look that great—her hair was limp and there were brown circles under her eyes, she was pale and was pressing her lips together, probably to stop them from trembling—and she very clearly didn't give even a tiny shit, which meant that he'd really scared her.

“I'm sorry,” he said before she could speak, and kissed her hand. “I'll hit the deck any time anyone says 'duck' ever again, I promise. The next time we hit the petting zoo I'm doing the Crawly Gator all over Quack Corners.”

She closed her eyes and sighed, then shook her head with them still closed. “Shawn,” she said, very tiredly.

The place where he'd been hit was super annoying, achy and bruisey and throbby and itchy, but he managed to sit up a little off the back of the bed and reach for her other hand. “I'm really sorry,” he said again. “Really. I don't love ducks more than you. I don't even love Kit-Kats more than you. I don't even love my _hair_ more than you.”

That did it; she laughed, and he smiled, even though it hurt, because that was at least a good hurt. “I love you too,” she said. “I don't like getting calls like that, you know. All I was looking forward to was some Thai and a bubble bath, and then Gus calls me, and all I can get out of him is 'Shawn' and 'blood' and 'unconscious' and—”

He winced. “I need to tell him sorry too. Maybe I'll spend a couple of days chilling and riding with him on his route to keep him company. I'll even let him pick the music. Do you think he would notice if I replaced all of his CDs with The Hoff's _Night Rocker_?”

Juliet snorted. “I really, really hope so.” Shawn thought she approved of his willingness to let someone watch over him for a while as well. He gave her hands a squeeze and then turned on his side to rest his cheek on the pillows. She stood and pulled up the blanket for him. “I called Carlton,” she told him when he was comfortable.

He lifted his head again. “Really?”

“Of course. He would want to know that you're okay.”

“He wouldn't even know anything happened unless you told him.”

Jules gave him another look, this one a little impatient. “He would want to know right away, just like the rest of us would. Gus said the only reason he didn't call him himself is because he thought he'd be asleep, and Gus wanted to make sure you were going to be okay before calling anyone but me.”

“I thought he was still working around the clock on those Publix robberies ever since one of the clerks was shot.”

“He is, but Gus didn't know that. I left him a message and he called back when he was able to check his phone. But that's not the point—wouldn't you want to know if something happened to him?”

He thought about Lassie being shot, or assaulted with grits, whatever those were, and cringed a little. “Yeah. I would. What'd he say?”

She paused, slipping on the sort of grin she brought out when something was funny but slightly mean, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to say it. He held a hand up, palm toward himself, and beckoned her on with his fingers. “He said... you're going to have a scar and the back of your head is going to be partly bald for the rest of your life.”

Shawn's mouth dropped open. “How _rude_ ,” he said, in his best Stephanie Tanner. “It will _not_. I'll wear a weave if I have to. Wow, that's low, even for Lassie. When are we seeing him next? His ass is going to have a scar.”

Juliet snorted. “We said we'd figure it out once he can close those robberies and you're better. See, there's another reason to stop being such an idiot—if you die, you'll never get to top him.”

“Why do I always pick the most inopportune times to enter rooms?” came Gus's voice. 

Shawn looked over to see him standing in the doorway with two cups of coffee. “Hi, buddy,” he greeted, trying on a grin. It didn't make his head hurt too much, so he widened it. “Great timing, as always.”

“No, Shawn, that was distinctly _bad_ timing.” Gus sighed and came further into the room, offering one of the cups to Jules. She smiled at him in thanks and sipped, making only a small grimace of disgust at the hospital cafeteria taste.

“At least it wasn't me this time,” Shawn pointed out. “I think you'll agree I've been _stellar_ at keeping TMI stuff on the DL.”

“I'm going to go print you a gold star.”

“I'd rather get a congratulatory smoothie.”

“How about a congratulatory kick in the ass?” Gus offered. “I happen to have a surplus of those ready.”

“Pass.”

Juliet's phone vibrated, and she set her coffee down. “I'll be right back,” she promised, and went out into the hall. She was back in almost immediately, looking even more drawn that before. “I'm sorry, Shawn, I need to go,” she said. “Chief Vick says they got all four of the smugglers Gus told her that you sensed, but she won't let me come in until I get some sleep, so I'm going to go do that.” She smiled, a cracking-ice sort of smile. “So that I have energy to tear them each seven new holes.”

“Seven is lucky,” Shawn said, approvingly. He blew her a kiss. “Bye, I love you, you're terrifying.”

“Thank you, Shawn. Gus, Vick would like you to come in at some point today—not now—” she added pointedly “—to give your statement on what happened last night, and to identify the man that caused Shawn to nearly fracture his skull.”

“Got it,” Gus said, settling into one of the chairs against the wall. Shawn smiled and laid his cheek more comfortably against the pillow and closed his eyes, hearing the TV go on as he fell asleep.

He was awake again almost three hours later, when one of the nurses brought him a get-well package that had just been delivered. Gus thanked her and brought a large bucket over to Shawn's bed. “Oooh, what is it?” Shawn asked.

“Ten pounds of Gummy Bears,” Gus said, looking as if he couldn't decide whether to be impressed or disgusted.

“Wow,” Shawn said appreciatively. “That is one barrel of bears. Who's it from?”

“Dunno, but they spelled your name wrong.” Gus unstuck the card from the top of the bucket and held it out.

“What!” Shawn made a face at the cursive, hand-written _Sean Spencer_ on the envelope. “At least they didn't do the version with the U. But who would send me that many gummies and not know how to spell _my_ name?” He ripped it open and pulled out a card with the evil baby from Family Guy on the front. He flipped it open and flicked his eyes to the initials at the end, and then he understood. Then he read the message and started to laugh.

> _You are a ducking moron, Spencer. Did you even quack the case? —CL_

  
He showed the card to Gus, who rolled his eyes and started to pry off the top of the Gummy tub. “This never would have happened if you didn't assume everyone else in the world goes into thralls of ecstasy over fowl,” he grumped.

Shawn thought about that, and then he grinned—this one was too perfect to pass up. “Ha ha,” he piped, a la Nelson Muntz. “This never would have happened if we had gone to Macon, Georgia.”

“Oh my god,” Gus said, holding his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shawn quotes Nelson from The Simpsons episode "Bart On The Road" again.


	2. Riding The Tricycle

  
**FEBRUARY 2009**

_You're moving close, my pulse is racing—we're getting close, yeah I can taste it_  
_I've never done it quite like this—so slow it down now, just slow it down_  
_The looks you give are so contagious, the way we move is so outrageous_  
_Just let me in, wasting time—just let me in, let me in_  
—The Maine, “[Count 'Em One, Two, Three](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ah8e1sgl3bk)”

  
Juliet planned Shawn's 30th birthday party carefully, renting a party room in one of his favorite bars/restaurants and stuffing it with all of the things that he liked—food, 80s music, people from the SBPD who thought he was amazing, junk food, pictures of his own face that showed off impressive things he'd done, snack food, his and Gus's Psych Man & Magic Head poster, and food—and although it was going to be without one thing he'd come to like an incredible amount since last summer (that would be rectified later, privately, which was probably for the best) everyone had a blast and Shawn only whined a little at his 'well advanced age'. Gus had gleefully stuck a hat with a massive, glittery “30” on it to his head, but Shawn had simply added another zero and went around calling everyone from Buzz McNab to Chief Vick “whippersnappers” and starting every other sentence with “Back in my day...”

Henry had left soon after attempting to remind Shawn of the fact that he was _actually_ an adult and would need to step up his game when it came to his responsibilities, but Shawn had kept on his Father Time voice and said, “Young man, when you get to be my age, you'll find that those are the things in life only kept around to keep the less imaginative people from having fun and really living. Let your mind break free from these chains, let your children run wild and free—bye, Dad, thanks for the new helmet.” Henry turned back incredulously, as all of the gifts were still on a table, wrapped, then rolled his eyes, threw his arms in the air—ending with a little wave—and exited.

The party was meant to end around nine-thirty, but when ten rolled around and Juliet took Shawn aside and reminded him that they were supposed to pick up Carlton from the airport at ten-thirty, she was mildly surprised when he told her to go on and pick him up herself—he and Gus were in the middle of a lengthy argument with one of the newest officers to the SBPD on the highly sensitive matter of whether Homer or Bart Simpson was the main character of the show, and he would have Gus drop him off home around the same time she would get back. 

Their timing was almost perfect—Carlton's flight was even a little early, and Juliet pulled up in front of the airport just as he was coming outside. The traffic was kind, and they had only just made it inside when they heard a horn in the parking lot beep twice, a goodbye from Gus. Carlton stowed his carry-on suitcase in a corner of Juliet and Shawn's bedroom, as per usual, and settled into the armchair just as Shawn bounced into the apartment.

“Happy birthday!” he shouted, arms up, and then stopped. “Oh, wait, that's me.”

“Oh, look, the dirty thirty,” Carlton said, and smirked.

“Yeah, you keep laughing, Lassie,” Shawn said casually, taking a drink Juliet had prepared for him and perching on the end of the couch. “It doesn't take someone with my observational skills to know how old you're going to be in a couple of weeks. But don't worry—I know someone with access to drug samples, and we can keep you in all of the tadalafil our little hearts require.”

“Uh huh. Let me guess, that's Viagra?”

“Nope.” Shawn grinned. “That's sildenafil.”

There was a pause, and Carlton rolled his eyes. “I know you're just waiting for me to ask—”

“It's Cialis,” Shawn said, proudly. “They're the same, really, I just like saying the one with 'ta da!'”

“Researching ED treatments?” Juliet asked, settling down on the sofa with her own drink. “You really need to stop going through your dad's medicine cabinet.”

The horrified look on Shawn's face was worth that one. “Good job, Jules, I am now so traumatized I'm not going to enjoy any of my birthday nookie.”

“Who said you were getting any?” Carlton asked. Juliet smiled into her glass as she tipped some Johnnie Walker back.

“Right, you flew most of the way across the country because you love the in-flight peanuts.”

Carlton shrugged loftily and sipped his drink. “More than I love your penis.”

“...okay, I set myself up for that,” Shawn said. He finished his drink and set the glass on the table; then his eyes flicked over, a little suspicious. “You're not seriously telling me you're not going to do me.”

“That's what I'm telling you.”

“But it's my birthday! Everyone knows you're supposed to get what you want on your birthday.”

Carlton motioned to the wrapped package on the coffee table. “I brought you a present.”

Shawn sighed. “I know you're fucking with me.”

“I told you, that's exactly what I'm not doing.” He met Juliet's eyes and she had to look away so that she wouldn't smile. “Even though it's your birthday,” Carlton went on. “I'm not putting my dick in you.”

“Why not?” Shawn demanded. 

“Reasons.”

“Oh my god.” Shawn slid sideways and flopped on the sofa, face down. “Stop messing with me, Lassie. I'll cry.”

“No, you won't.”

“It's my party and I'll cry if I want to. My cake is going to get all soggy with my tears. You're a dick.”

“Thought you liked that.”

“Not if you don't give it to me!”

Juliet couldn't hold her smirk back any more and squeaked with the effort. Shawn looked up at her. “You didn't ask him what the reasons were,” she told him.

“Fine.” Shawn sat up. “What are the reasons?”

Carlton tipped his glass toward the gift on the table. “Open your present.”

“I don't want it,” Shawn said, his voice light but his face stubborn. “I want you to fuck me.”

“That is not going to happen.”

“Just open the present,” Juliet said.

He looked at her again, now seeing that she knew something he didn't, and he sighed, reaching for it. “Fine. But it better not be, like, a wig or something. You can't refuse to fuck me _and_ make fun of my still-fucked-up hair in the same day, especially not on my fucking birthday. That's a law. It was ratified and satisfied.”

“Well that's just not true,” Carlton said. “Scarhead.”

Shawn had shaken the box and turned it around in his hands, squinting at it. “It's empty,” he said, and looked uncertainly at Juliet, but she shrugged. Frowning, he started to tear the paper, then shook it again. “Empty,” he said again. “Like your conscience.” Carlton ignored him and refilled his drink. Shawn finished taking off the paper to reveal an Amazon box that had the flaps secured down with packing tape. He gave both Juliet and Carlton another suspicious look, then slid a finger underneath one edge and pried the box open. He looked down into it for a long moment. “I bet that was fun to explain to airport security,” he said at last. “Not 'why are you traveling with what appears to be an empty box'?, but 'why are you being so mean to someone on their birthday?' Seriously.” He held it up and showed Juliet, who had of course already known that the box contained air and empty threats. “Is this supposed to mean something? Is this my punishment for trying to hide his return ticket when he came to visit after I got hurt? I don't get fucked _and_ I don't get a present?”

“Shawn,” Carlton said patiently. “I'm fucking with you.”

He tossed the box back onto the table. “I know. I'm chastened, now fuck me.”

“Nope.”

Shawn squinted at him again, and when he just looked back calmly, Shawn raised his hands. “Uncle,” he said. “You win, I give. I don't get it. You admit you're screwing with me, but I don't get a present and you're not going to screw me.”

Carlton smiled, pleased with his victory. “That's partly right. I did plan on giving you something. You can have it if you figure out what it is.” He sipped his drink again. 

“I'm honestly surprised you _don't_ get it yet, Shawn,” Juliet said.

“Really,” Carlton agreed. “I thought you were real-life genius Sherlock Holmes—I already told you twice what it was.”

Shawn's eyes widened. “Oh,” he said quietly. “It's you, right? You're not putting your dick in me, you're not going to fuck me—it's the other way around. You're going to let me fuck you.”

Carlton shrugged. “Crossed my mind.”

Shawn grinned. “You're going to give me your flower?”

Juliet laughed at the offended look on Carlton's face. “Not if you call it that,” he snapped.

“I'll call it anything you want,” Shawn promised. He paused. “You're going back the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes, but very early.”

“Very early,” Juliet said. “His flight leaves at seven, and we're getting up at five and leaving almost immediately.”

Shawn made a face at the early wake-up call, but he would be there to take Carlton to the airport with her, whether he sleep-dragged himself out of bed at five or just mainlined caffeine and stayed up through the night. “Okay, but that gives us all of tomorrow.”

“It does.” Carlton seemed to realize what he was getting at, and he snorted. “Yes, Shawn—I'll fuck you tomorrow.”

“I just wanted to make sure,” he said, then got up and slid into Carlton's lap, straddling him.

.

“You okay?” Shawn murmured.

Lassiter closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on breathing slowly and relaxing enough to let his body adjust. “In a minute,” he said. It felt like Shawn's cock was splitting him in half, and although he had pushed in very slowly, it felt like he was made of rock and a yard long. Three of his fingers pushed inside him all the way had been nothing compared to this—it was awkward and very uncomfortable, and he wondered how in the hell Shawn was able to moan and beg for more, beg for it harder, when he was on the receiving end.

“I can help,” Juliet offered. 

“Yeah,” Shawn said. “Get him hard, that'll help a lot.”

Lassiter opened his eyes to look at her, but she was no longer sitting cross-legged on the expanse of mattress—she had crawled closer, and his eyes tracked the fall of her hair as she leaned down and sucked his dick into her mouth. Shawn put his hand on the back of her head, patiently keeping his hips and his cock completely still, his eyes carefully watching Lassiter's face. 

Juliet sucking on him _did_ help, and just like Shawn had said, a lot. When he was completely hard and she was still going up and down on him, he squeezed down on Shawn and then couldn't help his eyes flying open and then rolling back, making a breathy noise he wouldn't have credited coming from his own mouth. 

Shawn beamed. “See?” he said. “Once you start to relax and loosen up, someone's dick in your ass feels _amazing_.”

“Uh huh,” was all Lassiter could manage.

“Let me know when you're ready for me to move.”

“In a minute,” he said again. It still felt like he was being impaled, but now he was starting to see the upside of it, that the tightness and the internal friction could actually be pleasurable, especially combined with the stimulation of his dick. He reached for Juliet and moved her hair, tucking a soft curl behind her ear so that he could see her face. She made eye contact with him and then tightened the suction of her lips almost painfully, and when he squirmed a little he felt Shawn twitch inside him, and he couldn't help but moan softly again, deciding that yes, he did want to feel the dick in his ass start to move. “Shawn,” he whispered. “Okay. Slow.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “'Scuse me, Jules, I need to get a grip on this situation.” As soon as Juliet had grinned and backed up, he closed his hand around Lassiter's dick and started to move both his hand and his hips, rubbing his palm over the sensitive head and squeezing the shaft. It was a _very_ weird sensation when he pulled back, but he timed his next thrusts forward with particularly good squeezes, gradually building a faster rhythm, and it wasn't long at all before Lassiter had his hands fisted in the sheets, breathing in low grunts and looking at Shawn with surprise—so this _did_ feel all right, better than he'd imagined, still somewhat painful because he was still adjusting—and a little helpless desperation, feeling out of control and, okay, a little frightened, because this was building, and it was so much, so intense. It was getting harder to breathe.

Shawn must have seen something on his face, because he slowed down even more, pushing all the way inside and then going twice more with long, careful thrusts. He stopped, breathing a little hard himself, then took one of Lassiter's hands and gently unmade the fist, pressing a kiss into the center of his palm. “You're okay,” he said gently. “Remember what I told you—you have to _let_ me inside you. It's kind of like—like letting go. Try to relax completely and let me in.”

He tried to do what Shawn described and let go of his control, but although he could tell that Shawn was completely still, he still felt like the hard cock inside him was splitting him in half. He looked at Juliet and crooked one finger at her to come closer and she did, lying on her side next to him and then giving him a long kiss with lots of her sweet, soft tongue. When she let him go, Lassiter took a long, slow breath, trying to decide if he was ready for him to start again. It didn't hurt as much now, and it didn't feel bad, exactly, but it was still quite a strange feeling to be penetrated like this, uncomfortable to have so much of someone else literally inside of him. He looked at Shawn, who was studying his face carefully, and he shook his head a little. 

“I don't know how you do this so... enthusiastically,” he said shakily. “And I'm bigger than you.”

Shawn raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Well... my hair is still nicer than yours, even with the weird scar. I'm a punk, man.”

“I know.” He tried to move a little bit on him, to see if setting the pace himself would help, but when Shawn pressed forward again, even slightly, his body clenched up again and he drew away, hissing in air. Shawn looked at him again and tilted his head to the side, and Lassiter tried to head off any undue concern. “A thirty-year-old punk,” he added.

“Rude,” Shawn said softly, but he didn't look offended; he looked at Juliet, seeming to confirm something, and then he smiled. “One of these days I'm going to rock your casbah, but it's okay if it's not right now.”

Lassiter was confused—he was getting better at reading the looks Juliet and Shawn sometimes shared, still a little amazed at how often they seemed to communicate completely without words, but this time he wasn't sure what had passed between them, because if the Clash reference was referring to sex, they were already doing that. “If what's not right now?” he asked.

“This,” Shawn said patiently. “You seem a little freaked out.”

He tried to say he wasn't, but suddenly found that he couldn't, because that was exactly what he was—that explained why he was still shaking, why he couldn't breathe easily, why his stomach and chest felt so tight, and why he still hadn't been able to completely relax and just let Shawn fuck him.

“Do you want to stop?” Juliet asked softly. 

He took one more breath, and then he nodded. “Sorry,” he said to Shawn, who was carefully pulling out. He'd been so far inside that Lassiter suddenly felt empty with him gone, which was also a very strange feeling, because he could also still feel him. He finally relaxed and breathed again, drawing air to the bottom of his lungs. 

Shawn shrugged, stretching out on his back on the bed. “That's okay, not everyone likes it. Not even all guys who only sleep with guys do.”

“And some straight guys do,” Juliet added.

“I did like it,” Lassiter said quietly. “It was just... overwhelming. Now that I know what to expect, next time we try that I'm sure I'll be able to handle it.” Shawn shrugged again and nodded, and Lassiter leaned over to kiss him, cupping his cheek like he liked. “I'm sorry,” he said again. “Happy birthday, anyway.”

“Oh yeah, it _is_ my birthday,” Shawn said, grinning again. “So how serious are you about not treating my dick deficiency tonight?”

“Not at all. I just want to get cleaned up a little,” he said, nodding toward the bathroom. The odd, slidey-sticky feeling down below had to go.

“You do that,” Shawn said, tilting his head at Juliet, who grinned back at him. “We'll just get started.”

When Lassiter came back into the bedroom, Juliet was on her back, writhing a little and moaning softly at the ceiling, and he stopped to just look at her for a moment. Shawn had her spread out wide, his face between her legs and his tongue rubbing and flicking across her clit; Lassiter watched him slide two of his fingers inside her, and she moaned again before twisting the fingers of one hand into his hair and pulling, trying to grind into his mouth. He licked her up and down and then molded his lips around her clit, sucking gently, and she arched her back while her eyelids fluttered closed and she gripped his hair tighter. He moved where and how she wanted him, humming in pleasure—while giving someone oral sex was the only time he ever allowed anyone to touch his hair, and Lassiter knew from firsthand experience that it wound him up quite a bit when anyone grabbed and yanked and forced him to move or to stay in place.

Lassiter sat down on the bed to watch, and when Shawn noticed him, he stuck his tongue as far inside her as he could, and then he popped up, put both hands on the back of Lassiter's neck, and kissed him deeply. Lassiter tasted Juliet's pussy on his lips and his cock was instantly hard again; he threw Shawn down on his back and straddled him, pinning him down by his forearms and rubbing his cock against Shawn's, tasting his mouth. He still sometimes had moments where it seemed to hit him again that he was having sex with a man, that it was Shawn Spencer he was naked with, that he was also actually sleeping with Juliet O'Hara— who wasn't his partner, but his former partner—but the more often he saw them and spent the night with them, the easier it was. Shawn gave him his tongue easily, writhing underneath him and gasping for more.

“What do you want?” Lassiter asked him, because it _was_ his birthday.

“This,” he said, almost pleading, his eyes dark. “Not 'til I come, or until you do, 'cause I want to be in the middle. But right now: hold me down and fuck me hard.”

Lassiter was at first reluctant to comply completely with this, having just realized himself what it felt like, but Shawn knew what he wanted, and it was obvious early on that he did like to be dominated. His eyes rolled back and he started moaning again as soon as Lassiter shoved his dick inside him and started to pound him, and Lassiter almost laughed when Juliet slid next to him and started to tease him, very lightly brushing Shawn's cock, and then licking one of his nipples and blowing on it.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, you guys are evil,” Shawn panted.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Juliet murmured. “Or we might cease and desist.”

“It's—it's my birthday—fuck, Lassie, harder—fuck me—”

Juliet looked at Lassiter, her face serious but her eyes amused. “Stop,” she said, and he did, holding completely still with his dick only halfway inside Shawn. There was often a hierarchy here, and he wasn't stupid—he knew who was at the top of it just as well as the other two did, and while he never would have allowed himself to not be at the top when it came to work, or almost any other faction of life, here it was okay, more than okay. And it wasn't like he was at the bottom.

“Noooo,” Shawn whined, trying to thrust himself back down on Lassiter's dick.

“You stop too,” Juliet said, very softly. She lightly pinched one of his nipples and Lassiter could feel him jerk a little, but he obeyed. They were both looking at her, not each other, and when she checked to make sure of this, she smiled. “Good. You can be in the middle, Shawn, but you're going to finish what you started. And if you come before I do...” She glanced at Lassiter and he licked his lips, not knowing entirely what that look in her eyes was about yet, only that she _would_ get her way.

“If I do?” Shawn asked, his voice a little breathless still.

“Then we'll both do all sorts of things to you tomorrow,” she said, still grinning. “But you won't come at all. I think we can make sure of that.”

“Evil!” he chirped, trying to squeeze on the dick in his ass and then wiggling a little again, clearly not having as much as he wanted. 

Juliet looked at Lassiter, and then gave him a grin that was just for him, leaning in close to kiss the side of his face. “Let him up, turn him around, and fuck him,” she said softly, and then moved her lips to the cup of his ear, her breath tickling the tiny hairs there. “And I want you to make him come before I do.”

Diabolical, certainly, but not outright evil—not to anyone who wasn't Shawn in the middle of this scenario, at least. Lassiter smirked back at her and in a matter of moments they had Shawn right where he'd wanted to be, and right where they wanted him. Juliet was stretched out onto her back again, one hand wound in his hair and directing his tongue fucking her, while he was on his hands and knees, his spread knees almost at the edge of the bed. Lassiter was standing behind him, pushing his cock roughly all of the way inside him, one hand on his hip and the other wrapped around his dick; then his hand moved faster as his hips jerked forward harder, his fist squeezing the base of Shawn's cock as he rammed inside him hard, all of the way, and going up to the head when he pulled back. 

It was a close race, and Lassiter thought that the only reason Shawn didn't come first was because of the angle—it was actually kind of difficult to get enough room and leverage to fuck him while trying to jerk him off at the same time—and because Shawn managed to get two of his fingers inside her and crook them just right. Juliet arched her back off the bed as she came, twisting her fingers in his hair hard and grinding his mouth into her, and Lassiter forgot about what his hand was supposed to be doing as he watched her eyes roll back and her chest heave. She let Shawn's head go and collapsed onto the bed, and he laughed a little.

“I win,” he panted, laying his head against the sheet and then squeezing down on Lassiter's dick. “Lassie, why'd you stop?”

“Sorry,” Lassiter said, and although he didn't resume fucking him yet, he stroked Shawn's cock back and forth, trying to make him squirm, which started to work at once; he buried his face in the mattress, spread his legs a little wider, and thrust backwards.

Juliet reached for Shawn and smoothed his hair down. “You want to be in the middle?” she asked.

“Yes!” Shawn braced both hands on the mattress and raised himself up. “Come here.”

She shook her head slowly, smiling, as she settled down on her back farther up on the bed and spread her legs. “ _You_ come here.”

Lassiter carefully pulled back from Shawn so that he could crawl forward to her, and then he waited patiently, knowing that they would show him where they wanted him. Shawn moved across the empty space at once and slid into her, catching her breathy moan in his mouth as he put one arm behind her neck, holding her close and kissing her. She put both hands under his arms and squeezed his back when he caressed her breast and brushed her nipple with his other hand; Lassiter sat on the edge of the bed, watching the way she licked into Shawn's mouth and thrust her hips upward to meet his. Shawn pulled his mouth away from hers and slid his lips down her throat, then he muttered something and Juliet looked at Lassiter and raised her eyebrows.

He shook his head. “Didn't catch that.”

She smiled. “He's not in the middle yet—you need to fuck us.”

Of course—it was Shawn's birthday, he would get one of his all-time favorite positions. Lassiter moved back behind him and Shawn held still long enough for him to shove his cock all the way inside him again, and then he moaned loudly when Lassiter put both hands on his hips to guide him back and forth—back onto his cock, forward into Juliet. Shawn tried to thrust both ways faster, but Lassiter held him firmly, setting the pace and keeping it until the two underneath him were both panting and writhing and he couldn't hold himself back any longer. He shifted position just slightly, so that instead of pulling Shawn onto him, he could slam into him, and then he went hard, fucking Shawn with long, steady thrusts and forcing him into Juliet in the same way.

Shawn's moans were high and breathy as he tried to keep some form of control over himself, but with the way they were both holding him, all he could really do was just let go and take it and cry out how much he loved it. He attached his lips to Juliet's neck again, moving to her shoulder, and Lassiter could tell by the way her eyelids fluttered and she dug her nails into his back that he was getting toothy—not normally one for biting, he only did so when he was just about crazy with it, almost over the edge of coming so hard he wouldn't be able to breathe. 

Sure enough, a few seconds later his cries reached a crescendo of both of their names mixed with swearing and affirmation; Lassiter pushed his dick inside him as far as it would go and rocked him through it as he tensed and twitched and tried to gasp. Juliet smiled and lifted her head far enough to kiss him, and Lassiter did the same, the position they were in only allowing him to press his lips to the side of Shawn's face before pulling out of him and gently rolling him off Juliet and onto his back.

Shawn's lungs unlocked and he let out his breath in a whoosh, starting to pant again, mumbling, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, m'god, guh, fuck.”

Juliet snickered a little at that, turning on her side and laying her head on his shoulder. “Wow,” she said. “I'm going to be feeling that tomorrow.”

“Me too.” Shawn closed his eyes and laid back bonelessly, and then his eyes popped open and he lifted his head enough to look at Lassiter. “Uh uh,” he said. “Unacceptable.”

He frowned a little, confused—he'd thought that was exactly what they'd wanted. “What?”

Shawn looked at Juliet. “Lassie didn't come,” he said. 

“You're right, that is unacceptable,” she agreed. “Are you sore?”

“No,” he said. “Are you?” She nodded, and Shawn looked at Lassiter and held his arms out. “C'mere.”

He did, but although Shawn lifted his legs and tried to wrap them around his waist, Lassiter didn't push into him again yet—instead, he cupped his cheek and kissed him, noticing how much he still tasted like Juliet. “Are you sure you're okay?” he asked. “I went at you pretty hard.”

“And it was definitely amazing,” Shawn said, almost sighing. “I'm good, just start slow.”

“I can do that.” Lassiter reached for the tube of lube that he'd tossed to the corner of the mattress earlier and applied more, then eased his dick inside Shawn and moved carefully, holding him in much the same way Shawn had held Juliet earlier, except that Lassiter put both of his arms under Shawn's back, his hands almost to his shoulders, instead of under his neck. Shawn liked to be fucked hard—loved it, couldn't get enough—but sometimes he also responded to the slow and gentle route, licking his lips and then pressing his wet and open mouth against Lassiter's throat, his moans softer but lower, his chatter in murmurs and whispers instead of near shouts. 

“Lassie,” he breathed. “Ohh, Lassie, ohmygod, you feel so good, so good, fuck, yes, don't stop, _never_ stop.”

“Can't... can't do this forever,” he managed to say, already starting to feel his orgasm approaching—he'd already been close when pounding him, but this was different, this _was_ so good, never in a million years would he have ever thought making love to Shawn Spencer could be one of the best things in his life, but it was, and Juliet was watching, smiling, another one of the best things, the only good things. 

“Sounds like a challenge,” Shawn said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Lassiter pulled him a little closer yet, close enough to kiss his neck and his jaw. They were pressed so tightly that he could hardly move his hips back enough to pull out and thrust back in—he was almost entirely inside him and could only manage the slight back and forth motion he'd been doing earlier, but it was going to be enough. He could feel Shawn's dick between them and could tell that it wasn't hard; he wasn't going to come again, he was just enjoying the feeling of Lassiter inside him, of being held while Lassiter rocked him, closer and closer to coming inside of him. Shawn could tell he was getting close and he lifted his legs a little more, giving him more room, and then he put both hands on the back of Lassiter's neck and kissed the underside of his jaw, breathing in quick, short gasps against his neck.

“Mmm... oh, Lassie, Lassie,” he whispered. “You're so good, _so_ nice. Give it to me.”

So he did, pulling out just a little more and going back in all the way, faster, molding into him and sliding thrusting surging and then he was coming, coming hard like coming home. He kept his eyes open and saw Shawn smile, satisfied, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Juliet grinning, also pleased that everyone had gotten theirs in such a mind-blowing way. He nearly collapsed onto Shawn, letting out one last breath that was half moan and dropping his forehead onto Shawn's shoulder, still inside of him and still holding him. 

“Wow,” Shawn said after a long moment, breathing long and slow and ending with a deep, contented sigh. “Happy _fucking_ birthday to me.”

“And you complained about turning thirty,” Juliet teased him softly. 

“Don't worry Jules, yours is coming up.” Shawn petted the back of Lassiter's hair. “You gonna sleep like this?” he asked, not sounding irritated, just curious and a little amused.

Lassiter looked up at him. “Yes,” he said. “You're cozy.”

Shawn smirked; he loved it when anyone tossed his lines back at him. “I know. It's fine, I like being a pillow.”

“I'll move.” Lassiter sighed. “Eventually.” He put both hands on the mattress and shoved himself up, carefully pulling away from Shawn and then flopping down on his back.

“Not it,” Shawn murmured.

“For what?” Juliet asked.

“If anyone wants towels or the sheets to cover up.” He stretched and put his hands behind his head, eyes closed. “It's still my birthday in Hawaii, so not it.”

“You don't care that you're 'all gooey'?” Lassiter asked, as Shawn was usually the first to at least wipe off with a towel or shirt after a sexathon.

“Not tonight I don't,” he said serenely. “I've just been shagged so righteous I could be Muppet skin. Jules, can you hit the lights? I get to sleep in the middle too, right?”

“Sure,” she said to both questions, and leaned over to kiss him before getting up and flipping the light switch on the wall. 

Lassiter glanced down and saw the shirt Shawn had been wearing earlier, and he grabbed it up to swab the excess lube from his groin before tossing it carelessly toward the hamper. There was a lamp that was on Juliet's usual side that was still on; Lassiter reached over for its switch as well, and when Juliet got back into the bed, Shawn turned on his side, facing her and holding his arms open. She slid into them, against him, and he rested his chin on the top of her head while she nuzzled into his neck. Lassiter eased down behind him and turned onto his side too, laying his arm over Shawn and curling it against his stomach, pulling him close. Shawn leaned back against him and then pulled Juliet closer, sighing again as though everything was right in the entire world.

“ _Damn_ cozy,” he mumbled. Juliet made a sleepy sound of assent and Lassiter just pressed his face against Shawn's neck and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm prettttttty sure they never say exactly when Shawn's birthday is? There's been a few mentions of how old he is in the beginning shorts, and there's always a year in the flashbacks, but they haven't always been the same. I'm going with Gus on this one, who is the same age as Shawn and had his 29th birthday near the end of season two (which took place in 2008). There's some weird timeline stuff in this one, but nothing that actually affects anything.


	3. Undercover and Overwhelmed

  
**JUNE 2009**

  
Shawn bopped into the apartment on a Tuesday mid-afternoon, full of sugar and sunshine and solving a case, saying 'sup to Siddy and glancing around, looking for Jules and hoping for other things that started with S. He and Gus had totally cleaned up their most recent case (the mother of a three-year-old had been convinced that their new house was haunted, although it turned out that her precocious little rugrat had been deliberately hiding things around, writing stuff like 'GET YOU' on the fridge with alphabet magnets, and throwing full food plates on the floor when her mother was out of the room, and then saying 'the ghosty man did it' because she was mad that they'd moved; Shawn had almost never been so glad that a girl he'd seen for a couple of months on the east coast in 2002 had helped convince him so thoroughly that he wasn't the parenting type), and Juliet had called him, saying that she was off work early and had some great news to share with him after a meeting with Chief Vick, something that would look great on her record and possibly get her a lot more high-profile assignments. She'd sounded so excited that he was excited, not only because she was digging something so hard her eyes would be shining, a look he adored on her, but because, hey, if she had more say over her cases, she would have more input on case consultants.

She was in the living room, on the sofa and wearing a short dress made of the sort of material that would blow around if they went to the beach. Shawn licked his lips when she looked at him, deciding that even though he'd eaten, he was going to make like Yogi and get them a picanic basket.

She smiled, and yes, her face was glowing, but her eyes weren't as starry as he'd hoped. Her voice had been, but—he glanced at her hands, which were loosely folded in her lap, something she did to keep them still, but not so tightly that they would get sweaty. So, good news, but she was a little anxious about something. “Hi, Shawn,” she said, and patted the spot next to her. “Come sit down.”

“I'm not going to get sand in my naughty places today, am I?” he said, actually a little disappointed.

She blinked. “Did you want sand—?”

“I wouldn't have said no to a beach scene. You know, a blanket on the sand, wine and those weird sandwiches made of cream cheese and black olives, walking across the shoreline in our bare feet and leaving tracks, writing our names just above the tide line with a stick, making a fire of driftwood, catching fish with our bare hands, gathering rocks to spell out HELP for the helicopters when they come looking for us, having to eat each other because we're starving, having to literally eat each other because the alien fish are on to us and the robot dolphins are smarter than we are, making you a top out of seashells, making me a top out of seashells, making a sandcastle, making a stand for humanity... or whatever else you like to do at the beach,” he finished, shrugging.

Juliet had been staring at him, one corner of her mouth turned up, and then she snorted. “That get away from you a little? Started off as romance and sank into stranded on a desert island, then went into sci-fi and disaster movie?”

“It's the blockbuster hit of the summer,” he insisted, and settled down onto the sofa.

“Mmm, maybe, but I'm not going to see it with you, particularly not if I have to wear a top made of seashells,” she said reasonably. “They can be really sharp.”

“How about just the picnic part? But with real food.” And he was going to get her to wear seashells one of these days.

She smiled again. “That would be great—we can go in a little while, just let me tell you my good news first.”

“Shoot.”

“It's an undercover assignment,” she said. “It's a big one—the chief is putting a lot of faith in me, but I think I can do this.”

“Sure you can,” Shawn agreed. He paused when her eyes remained serious. “It's dangerous?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I'm confident that I can take care of myself, and my handler will be checking in with me at least twice a day to make sure I'm all right.”

He didn't like the sound of that—most undercovers were only contacted once a day, some less, and the word _handler_ had FBI overtones. “I assume you're not going to tell me what the assignment is,” he said slowly.

She shook her head, her smile fading into seriousness. “No, Shawn. I can't. And you _absolutely_ cannot get involved, no matter what—we're working with another department, and anyone not officially in on this investigation could ruin everything. I mean it. This isn't like just dealing with Vick, who knows how good you are and that you get results. If you try to get involved, you can put me and others in serious danger. You can't have any contact with me whatsoever until I'm out.”

“Wow,” he said, frowning. “And how long is that supposed to be?”

“Well... we don't know. It could be a few days, or it could be a few weeks.”

It was getting harder to not be annoyed, or pissed off, that she clearly wanted this, and badly—that it was going to be good for her career and make her happy was obvious—but that she hadn't talked to him _before_ accepting it. He was just supposed to be all right with not knowing where his girlfriend was, what she was doing, who might be trying to hurt her, and when he might be able to see her or talk to her again? He looked at her and could tell that she knew everything he was thinking, and that irritated him even more, because he also knew that nothing he said was going to dissuade her.

"Shawn?”

He looked at her, his lips pressed together, trying hard to not throw a tantrum; she hated it and it would help nothing. But it was really difficult...so he said nothing.

“I'm sorry," Juliet said gently. "But all precautions are going to be taken, and you have to trust me that this is the best way to stop some very bad people. You really can't help,” she said when he opened his mouth to protest that there must be _some_ way he could help.

Now he was seriously pissed off. “Jules, I don't know what you want from me. You really expect me to think this is awesome, that you'll be in danger and I can't even see you or talk to you for weeks? What am I supposed to do here by myself all that time, just wait for Vick to call me and say _your handler's_ response time was sixty seconds off, and that was enough?”

“No.” She had on her patient face, but he wasn't in the mood for it. Siddy jumped up on the end of the couch and Shawn snatched him up, folding him in his arms and tucking his tail underneath his back legs, rubbing a spot near his ear where his fur was thin. He didn't start purring, which he usually did when his ears got attention, but he didn't squirm or growl to get away. “I had an idea about that, actually,” Juliet said, and he could see out of the corner of his eye that she was watching him carefully. “What you could do while I'm on assignment.”

“What.”

“Shawn.” She sighed, and then she moved closer to him and reached to pet their cat, her hand then going over his. “Come on. I understand that you're worried, and that you're frustrated that I didn't give you a chance to talk me out of it before I said yes. You feel like you need to help me, but I feel like I need to help my department, and I absolutely need to help the people that are being hurt in this case. I think you'll like my idea—and you won't be alone.”

He let go of Siddy, who jumped down to the floor and headed into the kitchen without a backward glance, and then he leaned into Juliet's side, resting his cheek on her shoulder. “Okay, what is it?”

She kissed his forehead. “How about you go visit Carlton?” she suggested. “Just you, the whole time I'm on assignment—you can leave the same day I go undercover, and come home when I'm out. He won't be able to have the whole time off to spend with you, but you could stay with him and he'll keep you distracted when he's not at work.”

He was quiet for so long that he felt her shift next to him so that she could look at him. “Jules,” he said quietly.

“...yes?”

“Did you already talk to him about this?” he asked, and when he glanced at her, he saw her 'deciding how much to say' look. “Lassie knew you were going undercover before I did,” he said flatly. “You told him first, then asked him if he could keep me out of your way. I don't believe this.” He put on his squeaky voice, which she thought was funny most times, except when he was mocking her. “'Come home, Shawn, I have good news! You're in my way, so leave!'”

She shook her head. “That's not what I said, Shawn, calm down. I only told him that I was accepting an assignment you weren't going to like, and asked if you could spend the time I was gone with him so that you wouldn't be alone. That's all. I wanted to make sure his caseload wasn't too heavy and you'd end up being just as alone in Macon as here.”

He knew that this was, actually, probably the best course of action to take now that the wheels were already in motion, but he hated it in more ways than one—in more ways than, like, five, to be exact. Jules was going to be in danger, he couldn't help her, he didn't want to chance spending that much time alone with Lassie and getting on his nerves too much... Jules and Lassie were talking to each other without him, about him... and he couldn't tell her any of that, couldn't even talk to Gus about it, because Jules would be frustrated and say he didn't trust her when he couldn't _help_ worrying and wanting to help her, and Gus would only say that he'd been right, that too much was changing and they were only going deeper. He would only end up telling Juliet that he would trust her judgment and go along with whatever she wanted, even if he didn't want to, and he would only end up insisting to Gus that everything was fine... when it wasn't.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Juliet said softly.

“I don't have change.”

She smiled a little and kissed the side of his face again. “I know you're upset that I talked to Carlton before you. I'm sorry. I won't do that again, okay?”

He sighed. “It's fine, I get why you did. He probably understood what you wanted to do and didn't bother being worried that you're going to get hurt. I guess he's seen more of you in cop-mode than I have.”

“That's true, but he also knows a lot more about police procedure, and handling undercover officers.” She paused. “For what it's worth, he did ask me if I'd talked to you before accepting the assignment, and when I said I'd told Chief Vick I'd do it as soon as she asked me, he said you weren't going to like that. And then he said you were more than welcome to come stay with him for a couple of weeks.”

Shawn clicked his tongue. “Mistake. I'm going to go crazy with nothing to do while he's at work and he'll come home to find me painting his living room bright pink.”

She smiled again. “I'll let you two sort that out—remember, he has police-issue handcuffs.”

“Don't think I've forgotten for a minute.”

Juliet wasn't going to go undercover for almost a week, as she was going to be in training to know the case inside and out (and to refresh her on what sounded like seventeen kinds of procedure), so Shawn tried his best to spend as much time with her as possible without annoying her so badly that she would jump at any future chances to go as long as two or three weeks without seeing or speaking to him. He also tried to plan his time away, making a list of things to do or check out while Lassie was at work, and it was while he was on the phone to Gus, who was nearly frothing at the mouth in his insistence that Shawn visit an Eartha Kitt memorial exhibit and get pictures, that he glanced at his own kitty and realized something.

“Holy Pounce, Catman,” he said. “Who's going to take care of Siddy?”

“Not me,” Gus said. “I have routes lined up from hell to breakfast just about every single day for the next two weeks—and no, I don't care if you're back before then, I'm still doing them.”

When he brought up the problem to Juliet the next morning, she posed the idea of a pet-sitter, but a twice-a-day feeder and once-a-day litter scooper, along with the idea of Siddy being on his own the rest of the time, didn't seem worth the expense. Gus had suggested an animal boarding place, but that would cost even more. “Maybe I can take him with me,” Shawn mused, tilting his hand to zip the point of a laser across the living room carpet. Siddy was in a kill frenzy going after it, and some of the impressive leaps and twirls he made in mid-air—with complete disregard for his safety and well-being—immediately set Shawn's will on taking along a living piece of his life with Jules. He glanced at her. “Do you think Lassie would mind?”

“Yes, actually,” she said, looking doubtful. “He told me once that he thinks any pet you can kill by accidentally stepping on it shouldn't be allowed in the house. He was talking about someone's 'little yip-dog', but it was about the size of Sid.”

Shawn tried to scowl, but Siddy chose that moment to run full-tilt-boogie into the side of the entertainment center, and he cracked up. “Too bad,” he said. “Call him and tell him my puddy tat is a nonrefundable bonus.”

“I need to get going; I have a meeting with one of the agents on my case.” She paused. “You can call him too, you know. When you had me call him yesterday to make sure he could pick you up from the airport, he wondered why you haven't called him once. I thought he just meant why you haven't been bugging him about this trip, but he meant since last summer, since the first time we visited him—not once. Any reason?”

He shrugged, making the laser pointer and the cat spin in a circle in the middle of the floor. “You're good at setting up our visits—you know when you have time off and when he does, and I always tell you when me and Gus are in the middle of a case and I'm actually working.”

After she had left, Shawn put down the cat toy to give Siddy, whose mouth was hanging open as he panted, a chance to rest. He toyed with his phone while leaning against the counter in the kitchen, pinging Gus back in a text game they had going, and then stared for awhile at “Classy Kinda Sassy Lassie” in his contact list. He probably should try to make his case for his cat on his own, even though he was sure Juliet could do a quicker and more decisive job of it—she had always known how to talk to Lassiter, could get him to have a moderately pleasant conversation after just a couple of months as his partner, whereas half of what he said to Shawn was _still_ “Shut up” and “You're an idiot”. Shawn knew he meant those things less and less as they spent more time together, but without Jules around he felt any silence as uncomfortable and was forced to kill it by chattering about stupid, idiotic things, necessitating Lassie to tell him to shut his face. He really wasn't sure how he was going to manage not driving the stuffy, serious-minded, often close-mouthed detective out of his skin for as long as two weeks. He couldn't blame Lassie at all for not taking any vacation time—going to work would probably be a vacation for him with his imminent house guest, which was fair. 

He checked the time—eight-twenty, making it eleven-twenty in Georgia's time zone—and grabbed his breakfast as it came up in the toaster, thinking that Lassie was probably at lunch and it was probably safe to call him. He hit the call button and held the phone to his ear, and it was ringing before he realized he forgot to think of a good opening line.

“Lassiter.”

“Listen, you little shit,” he said, and took a gigantic chomp off a Razzleberry Pop-Tart. “You stay away from my daughter. I know what all of your kind are like, and if it takes pudding, I won't hesitate. There will be proof all over the inside of your car. No sprinkles, though, because by all accounts you weren't that kind of gentleman.”

“Shut up, Spencer.”

“Oh, come on, I get demoted to last-name-basis again for that? That was so tame.”

“What if I was at a meeting and had my phone on speaker?”

Shawn grinned, sipping his Sunny D. “That's why I didn't start off by telling you what I was going to do to you next week. Here's a hint: there may actually be pudding.”

“Uh huh. Was that all you wanted? I'm trying to read through one of my detectives' notes.”

“You're not at lunch?”

“I'm eating in my office.”

“Oh. Okay.”

There was a short pause, and Shawn could hear paper shuffling. “I can read it in ten minutes,” Lassie said. “What do you need? Please tell me that you didn't just call me at work to chat.”

“What? No, I had a reason.” He picked at the corner of a Pop-Tart's crust, and then he sat up a little straighter when he heard Lassiter exhale slowly. It wasn't necessarily that he didn't want to talk to Shawn right now; he really was trying to work, then, and didn't enjoy his time being wasted. “Um, I just wanted to tell you thanks for letting me hang around so I don't go stir-crazy while Jules is undercover, since there's really not that much to stir here. And that I'm bringing Siddy.”

“That's—you're bringing a what?”

“Siddy,” Shawn said patiently. “My kitty.”

“No,” Lassie said at once. “My house is a pet-free zone.”

“So you won't put a collar on me?”

“No cat, Shawn.”

“Yes cat, Lassie,” Shawn said indignantly. “Don't ferociously forbid my feisty feline. Jules isn't going to be coming back here for probably a couple of weeks, and I can't ask Gus to pop over here twice a day to feed him—he's got major route activity lined up since Psych doesn't have any clients and I'm going to be gone. You don't want him to _starve_ , do you? Do you?”

“There are such things as pet boarders, you know.”

He scoffed. “Those are just kitty jail. And he'll get sad. He won't be any trouble—he doesn't go outside and he's de-clawed and fixed, so what's the BFD?”

“Maybe I don't want cat hair all over my furniture? Or an animal taking a crap in my house, ever think of that?”

“My craps are bigger than his craps, are you going to make me do my business in the back yard? He's just _one_ tiny little boy cat, Lassie. I'll lint-roll everything you own before I come home if that makes you feel tingly again.”

There was a pause. Shawn broke the remaining Pop-Tart into exactly fifteen pieces while he waited for Lassie to give in or flat-out refuse. Finally, when he heard an annoyed sigh, he grinned.

“Do you have your heels dug in on this?” Lassie asked.

“Not as much as I'm going to dig them into your back, but yes.”

“You're going to bring a cat most of the way across the country because you don't trust an animal boarding service to feed it.”

“Well... that and he can keep me company when you're at work, so I'm not just sitting at your house, staring at the walls.” _Which I actually may paint pink_ , he didn't add.

Lassiter sighed. “ _Fine_. But if it pees on anything except its sandbox I'm going to tie it _and_ you to the support beam in the basement.”

“Kinky,” Shawn said, and that was how Sidward Spencer ended up in an airplane cabin, thoroughly terrifying a three-year-old all the way from Denver to Chicago with his haunted meows for freedom from the travel kennel on Shawn's lap.

“Monster!” the little kid kept insisting to the elderly woman in the next seat, causing her to give Shawn an increasingly intense evil look every time the plane had a little turbulence and Siddy had another minor freakout.

“I am so sorry,” he said repeatedly, before trying to ignore the kid and Granny Glareface entirely. He'd tried to talk to the kid, to say, “No monster, it's just a little kitty cat,” but when he'd attempted to turn the kennel around to show the grate side, the toddler had really started screaming, and half the cabin had aimed disgusted glares their way. At least that was a distraction from his certainty that he would never see Juliet alive again; he was also uneasy about going to visit Lassie by himself, not just because he was sure he'd manage to fuck it up somehow, but because something was way weird about it, and he couldn't put his finger on what.

During his layover in O'Hare, where he'd managed to get a helpful college student to hold Siddy's harness so he could administer some of the calming herbal supplement Jules had picked up from the vet, he glimpsed what was clearly a newlywed couple heading off on their honeymoon, and it clicked. It was weird because if Jules had gotten this assignment a year ago, they would never have even considered having Shawn stay with their former lover Kyle and his wife, even though both he and Juliet had had sex with Kyle far more often than they'd had sex with Lassiter. It wasn't that Kyle was married and Lassie lived alone, either—it was that Gus had been right. Kyle had been just sex, Lassie was... more. The dynamics were changing, things were _progressing_ , and it was happening so quickly that none of them had even noticed. God knew what things were going to be like a few weeks, a few months from now.

“Hey, Sid.” Shawn reached into the carrier while he sat in a departure lounge and stroked one of the cat's ears. Siddy opened one eye blearily. “Is it true that if curiosity kills the cat, satisfaction brings him back?”

“You're talking to a cat,” a little girl informed him.

“They know all the answers,” he told her seriously.

“It's good someone does,” she said, and stuck her nose back into her Harry Potter book.


	4. Lassie Gets Secrets Out of Hock From the Shawn Shop

  
_I don't mind you coming here and wasting all my time_  
_'Cause when you're standing oh so near, I kinda lose my mind_  
—The Cars, “[Just What I Needed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5-rdr0qhWk)”

  
Lassiter waited for Shawn's flight late on a Sunday afternoon, trying to determine how adamantly he could insist that the stupid cat ride in the trunk. He had just settled on medium-adamant—he would press and argue for it, but not mind that much that he wouldn't win—when he saw the way Shawn was trudging through the crowds. There would very likely be lots of opportunities (or reasons) to snap about the animal later on, he figured, and it was almost pre-written that there would be various arguments about various things, so there was no need to start off this visit with hostility. He held up a hand when he saw Shawn looking around for him, and when he simply nodded and went to the luggage carousel, Lassiter frowned. He walked over to meet him, and then went one further in trying to start off well—he picked up the small animal carrier Shawn had set down by his feet to reach for his suitcase, and gave the lump of fur lying on the bottom a very minor glare.

“Is this thing dead?” he asked.

Shawn glanced at the carrier. “If I said I wasn't sure, would he be a Schrödinger's cat? I can get him—trade me.” He held out the handle of the suitcase and reached for his pet. 

“Just the one?” Lassiter lifted it and found it only moderately heavy, but all Shawn was carrying besides the cat crate was a large backpack.

“Yeah, I kinda assumed you had a washing machine.”

“Of course I do.” Lassiter gave him a look as they exited the airport and headed toward the parking lot. “You've seen it—last November, when you were being a jackass and drinking from the gravy boat and spilled the whole thing down your shirt and Juliet made you wash it yourself.”

“In my defense, I was really drunk,” Shawn said. He muttered something about his 'gravy level', but when Lassiter looked at him questioningly, Shawn just shook his head and continued to scan the lot for the dark red Impala Lassiter drove. When they located it, Shawn set the cat carrier on the back seat, slung his backpack onto the floor in front of it, and slung himself into the front seat while Lassiter put his suitcase in the trunk. Lassiter looked for a moment at his spiky hair over the head rest, and then he slammed the trunk lid, still frowning.

While they waited at a red light, Lassiter glanced uncertainly at Shawn again, and then he realized what was odd about his behavior, other than his current subdued manner and uncharacteristic silence—he'd barely looked at Lassiter since they'd met by the baggage claim, and for someone like him to keep his mouth shut and his eyes cast down, there must be a serious problem.

“Juliet will be fine,” he said.

“I know.”

“Apparently you don't.” At least, he wasn't even close to believing it.

Shawn did glance at him now. “Okay,” he said evenly. “Then neither do you.”

Lassiter decided a little goading, to nudge him into competition, would rile him up and out of his apparent funk. “I guess I must have more faith in her,” he said. When this garnered no response, he looked at his passenger again, slightly confused.

“Hmm,” Shawn said to the dashboard. “You must.”

“All right, quit it,” Lassiter snapped. “You want to tell me what your problem is? I know it's not just worrying about what might go wrong with her case, because she said you were _concerned_ about that, not auditioning for Captain Emo.”

This did get the response he'd been hoping for—Shawn gave him an incredulous look before starting to snicker. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Nothing's my problem. Flying alone is boring, and flying with a melodramatic cat that scared a little boy so bad he needed new Pull-Ups didn't help, especially when the kid's grandmother looked like she was considering making kitty jerky, but I gave him some more of those drops in Chicago and he calmed down.”

“You gave the little boy a sedative?”

“ _No_ , Siddy.” Shawn gave him another look. “I don't really like kids, but that doesn't mean I'm going to secretly drug them. And it's not even a drug—cats don't actually do well with being sedated, so the vet gave us some herbal stuff. I don't even know if it would have any effect on a kid.”

“Special _herbal_ stuff for the cat, la di dah,” Lassiter mimicked. “Anyone ever tell you that you're _really_ weird about cats, especially for a guy? You were also weird with the one you kept telling everyone was talking to you. Baby-talk and all.”

Shawn turned around in his seat and stuck his fingers into the grate of the carrier. “Buddy, don't listen to the strange, skinny, sad man,” he said. “You're a good little boy, yes you are. You're not going to mark your territory _anywhere_ in his cleanroom of a house. It doesn't need to smell like you at all, no sir. You'll make such good pee-pee, what a good boy.”

“I mean it about the basement.”

Shawn snorted and turned back around. “Chill, he'll be fine. Excuse me if I care about my animal. You're the one that wept on your tie when someone dropped your gun on the ground.”

“Cats land on their feet,” Lassiter insisted. “My gun could have gotten a dent in it, and that woman was lucky I didn't dent _her_.”

“Scawy,” Shawn said under his breath. Then, “You can dent me.”

“I plan on it.” 

Shawn nodded and looked out of the window again, but this time he didn't look as sullen. Lassiter decided to continue engaging him so that he wouldn't have a chance to fall back into that brooding state. Juliet had told him how Shawn had reacted when she'd told him about her assignment, and when he'd found out she hadn't told him first, and she'd also said that while he was slow to anger or to get depressed, it wasn't pretty when he was, and those moods were better avoided. Lassiter briefly wondered if he could fuck him out of that sort of mood.

“How _did_ you figure out the brother was the murderer?” he asked. “Since, obviously, the cat didn't tell you and you weren't _channeling_ the actress when you danced around Vick's office and then plopped into my lap.”

Shawn looked at him and grinned, pleased. “No, that was just for funsies. You liked it, didn't you?”

“The murderer,” Lassiter said.

“Nope, I don't care what anyone says, murderers aren't sexy.” He seemed to think a moment, and then he shrugged. “The dude was renting out the apartment he shared with his brother, the first victim, so Gus and I went to check it out, because something was nagging at me that the first victim was the key to everything. Something my dad told me once, about flipping things upside down to get your prize. Anyway, when we were looking around the place, I saw this homemade key rack that had pegs like the rungs on a telephone pole.” Shawn snorted. “I also told him Gus and I were a couple and the place was for us.”

“Why? The place was a two-bedroom if he was sharing it with his brother, wasn't it?”

“Yeah. Mostly to distract him from wondering if I was snooping around, because I totally was, but also to see Gus's face when I said there was a shower for two.” He smirked again. “Gus is straighter than people that have recently come out of Compton, but it's just fun to fuck with him sometimes. That's what best friends are for, right?”

“Wouldn't know.”

Shawn looked surprised. “You never had a best friend?”

Lassiter shrugged. “You may not have noticed,” he said, “but I don't have the easiest time relating to other people. Not like you, who gets along with just about everyone, even so much that the people that actually like you put up with fifteen tons of bullshit on a daily basis.”

“Fair enough. Anyway, me and Gus were hanging around the suicide call center, right? When we were hiding in the storage closet I put my Dial-A-Psychic sign on, I saw they had a phone repair schedule up, and after you arrested that creepy poet I realized all the murders happened right after the lines were being serviced. Gus climbed the telephone pole and threw down their maintenance phone, when I hit redial it gave up Buzz's number.”

Lassiter was both impressed and annoyed—all of that psychic crap, all of his secrecy, and it was that simple. “Gus does more work than you do, doesn't he?”

“Uhh... yeah, probably. No, definitely.” Shawn clicked his tongue. “He really is the best friend anyone like me could hope for. Like you said, he puts up with my crap, and he always knows what I mean when even I don't. He's totally a genius—the random stuff he knows and how he can put things together with the stuff I know is how we work. Plus he's just the best dude ever—no matter what I'm going through he listens, and even if he doesn't know how to fix things he's a good sounding board to bounce my own ideas off of. I would crash and burn a million times without Gus.”

“Then why do you give him so much crap and take him for granted?” Lassiter was genuinely curious about this, and had been before when observing their dynamic.

Shawn shrugged. “I'm a manipulative, selfish asshole,” he said simply. “I fuck around and give people crap and take people for granted. If the people I love didn't get that and help me to see it and _stop_ being an asshole, I'd be alone and would just... you know. Crash and burn. I really don't know why anyone bothers half the time.”

There was a long pause, and Lassiter scrambled for something to say before he went morose again, but it was hard to know what to say, as he couldn’t ever remember him speaking so seriously and honestly before. He was also surprised, again, at just how much there was to Shawn Spencer below the surface, that he never would have credited just a few months ago. “Well, at least you're self-aware,” he said at last.

“I know what I am,” Shawn said quietly.

 _I don't think you do_ , Lassiter thought, but didn't say. He almost asked what he thought he was, just out of curiosity, but something told him not to, that it was obvious, and that any more digging into it was only going to make things worse.

“Hey, when do I get free honest interview time?” Shawn asked suddenly. 

“What?”

“I'm like, baring the pink meat of my soul over here,” he said. “Do I get to ask you stuff, too?”

“Like what?” Lassiter asked warily.

“Like... oh, you didn't actually answer me earlier—you liked it when I sat in your lap, didn't you?”

“...I always like it when you do that.”

“Including that time?” he persisted.

“I don't know.” He stopped the car at another red light and glanced at Shawn to receive the doubtful look he knew that would earn. “You really startled me then,” he said. “I honestly didn't know what to make of you half the time.”

Shawn thought about this and then nodded. “What about the other half?”

“You just annoyed the shit out of me. You really want some truth?”

“Yeah.”

“Most of the time I was ever around you back then, you just pissed me off,” Lassiter said. “I knew you were a fake, and I knew that you knew I knew it, and you still went prancing around, solving cases under my nose, and then saying you were magic instead of just saying what you saw and what you deduced from it. I know now how you do it and why you kept it up, but back then you just—” He stopped, took one hand off the steering wheel and shook a fist in the air, trying to show how frustrated he'd gotten. “I could see that you were really intelligent, but that you tried to hide it and deliberately act like an idiot instead of owning up to it. You go out of your way to pretend you don't know things—like when you deliberately mix up words and phrases and look around for someone to correct you, usually Guster. Seriously, why do you do that, when you could just... speak intelligently?”

Shawn shrugged. “I dunno. I don't really care enough, and I don't want to sound like a dork?”

“You sounded like a dork when you asked me if I was going to _Banarama_ ,” Lassiter said, trying to keep his patience. “Everyone in that room, including you, knew it wasn't even Alabama.”

“It was funny?”

“It wasn't.”

“Yes it was—c'mon Lassie, sing 'Venus' for me. You can be my fire, my desire.”

Lassiter was losing his struggle to not get pissed off again, and the look he gave Shawn wilted the smart ass grin on his face.

“People like to laugh,” he insisted. “Why do you think the class clown is always so popular? Why do you think it's usually so easy for me to make friends? If you ask most people who they'd rather hang out with, they're going to answer someone fun, someone who makes them laugh and have a good time, not someone who got a hundred on the DET.”

“I got ninety-seven point two,” he corrected, annoyed.

“Oh, you did?”

“Yes, practically _no one_ gets a—“ Lassiter looked at Shawn sharply, and then he slumped in his seat a little, rolling his eyes. “Oh, for the love of justice. You _didn't_.”

Shawn's eyes darted around the car. “Uhh...”

“When did you even take the exam? Must have been after I left, right? Since I would have seen your name on the score list, because I checked it regularly. I had the highest in the whole department.”

“No. I took it when I was fifteen.” He shrugged. “My dad wanted to see where I was at with my 'training'.” 

“Are you shitting me?”

“Eww,” Shawn said. “That I am _not_ into."

Lassiter gave him another glare. “You're telling me that you got a hundred on the DET when you were _fifteen_ years old.” Shawn shrugged again, looking uncomfortable. “That's exactly what I'm talking about,” Lassiter said crossly. “Do you have any idea how impressive that is? Wait, I'm sure you do. You'd just rather baby-talk to a cat and pretend that you can't remember simple things even though you have an eidetic memory.”

“It's _really_ not that awesome,” he said, now sounding tired. “Sure, it helps me solve cases, but there's nothing intrinsically hot about having a genius IQ and being able to tell you that there wasn't just one, but _two_ trick questions on the DET—that's how they get you, yanno. You find the first one, and then you're all proud of yourself and thinking you're gonna ace it, and then bam, one letter on question twenty-two that changes the answer entirely, and they totally count that shit.”

They had come up on a four-way intersection, and were the fourth car in line to turn left, so Lassiter spent a moment staring at him. “What if I told you _I_ found that attractive?” he snapped at last.

Shawn raised his eyebrows, and then he slowly grinned. “Lassie,” he said. “I have big, gooey brains for you.”

He shook his head and glared at the road. “You are so fucking annoying, Shawn.”

“You're annoying when you don't fuck me.”

Lassiter briefly considered telling him he wasn't going to, after all of that, but knew he wouldn't be able to stick to it very long. “Oh, I'm going to,” he said. “We're almost to my house and your smart ass is going directly to the bedroom.”

Shawn's eyes widened and he licked his lips. “ _That_ is intrinsically hot,” he said. “But we need to find a Walmart or something first—I didn't bring anything in the way of a litter box or food for Siddy, since they're cheap and take up too much room, and I suddenly have the distinct feeling that once we get back to your place no one is leaving until tomorrow morning, and he's been trapped in that carrier all day with barely any water and no place to potty.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes and put on his turn signal to pull into an upcoming parking lot, to turn around. “You should have said that right when I picked you up, we're already past one.”

“I was going to, but you distracted me with all of your questioning about murders and how annoying I am.”

That wasn't all he'd distracted him from, so that was okay. Lassiter turned the car around and waited for a break in traffic to turn left again, and five minutes later he found a place to park at a bustling Walmart. “Go in and get the cat paraphernalia, I'm going to check my work messages,” he said, getting out his phone.

“Okay. Do I need to grab anything else?”

Lassiter thought he heard a slight emphasis in that, so he glanced up. “Like what?”

“Snake balloons, Jell-O pudding, exactly five three-pound containers of margarine, an air horn, and a cucumber. It's party time,” Shawn said seriously. When Lassiter sighed and rubbed the spot on his forehead between his eyes, Shawn smirked. “I'm talking about sex supplies, Lassie—like lube. Do you still have some, or should I get more?”

He almost said of course there was some left, it wasn't like he was having sex with anyone else, particularly men, when he wasn't seeing Juliet and Shawn, but then he pictured a cashier having to ring up a litter box, cat litter, cat food, and some Great Value Brand water-based personal lubricant, and the look Shawn was likely to get. “Might as well get more,” he said. “You could be here for weeks.”

Shawn saluted him and undid his seat belt. “Aye aye, check, matey. One more question: do you have any actually good food? I'm kind of hungry, and I can wait awhile, but later on I'm not going to want to munch on radishes or whatever else you eat to keep that beanpole figure.”

“I'm going to make you snack on my cock if you don't shut up,” Lassiter warned.

“I'm going to do that anyway,” Shawn assured him. “But you really don't want to see me when I'm in the middle of a pizza roll deficiency.”

“Get pizza rolls then, I don't care.”

“What are you going to eat?”

“I don't know.”

“Okay, I'll get us something good.” He got out of the car, and then leaned into the open back window. “Bye Siddy-kitty,” he cooed. “You be a good boy for step-daddy while I'm gone, and I'll get you a present.” He glanced up and winked at Lassiter, who was staring at him impatiently again. “I'll get you a present too,” he promised, and headed into the store.


	5. Secret Agent (Wo)man

Agent Clarke set her empty coffee cup down on the kitchen bar and looked at Juliet again, her face unsmiling. “I'm sure you'll be satisfactory,” she said. “Do you have absolutely any other questions before I go?”

Juliet had been waiting until they had gone over and over again all of her goals, tasks, and procedures for the assignment before getting personal. She was officially going undercover as soon as the FBI left the apartment that had been wired up from every possible angle, and although they would be checking in with her twice a day, she wouldn't see them again until either the assignment was over—if she did make an arrest, if one of the other UCs did, or if the supervisors were no longer sure any of them could—or something went very badly. “Yes,” she said. “Will I be at all able to have contact with my boyfriend? He's going to be in another part of the country while I'm under, so don't worry about face-to-face—I'd just like to know if there are going to be any times when I could safely call him. I wouldn't have my personal phone on me while on assignment to accept any calls, of course.”

Agent Clarke was frowning now. “Is it a serious relationship?”

“Yes, we live together. He's very worried, which is why he's gone to stay with a friend while I'm on assignment.” Juliet saw her handler's rising eyebrows and went on quickly, thinking to herself that the next couple of weeks were going to be a lot harder if this agent couldn't trust that she knew what she was doing. “He doesn't know what my assignment is, only that I've got one, and he's worked with the Santa Barbara Police Department before as a consultant.”

“Yes.” Agent Clarke flipped open one of the folders in her stack and selected a print-off. “Shawn Spencer, co-owner and lead _psychic_ for the Psych Agency. Impressive record—I've been informed that he actually is quite good at picking up on small clues and following his, shall we say _instincts_ , to put pieces of cases together. However, we at the FBI tend to take our evidence-gathering very seriously, and we've no patience for the mystic. They have a tendency to think they can read into what's not there, and often become... a liability.”

Juliet carefully kept her face neutral, maintaining eye-contact but searching her memory for everything she knew about this woman, what she'd been told and what she'd seen. “I understand,” she said after a moment, and she did—Agent Clarke was disinclined to allow someone not part of her team close to any of her undercover officers, particularly the women, because something had happened, someone had been hurt, likely someone Agent Clarke had been close to or felt particular responsibility for. It wasn't so much that she thought Juliet young and inexperienced; she was the serial killer's exact type, and the smallest mistake could cost a detective her life. Shawn might have used what he had observed and deduced to charm and manipulate, or, if that didn't work, to impress or distress someone into getting what he wanted; Juliet decided to try another tactic: compromise.

“It's important to make sure, above all else, that nothing is said inadvertently that would give anyone on the outside any information about the case,” she said softly. “And it's true that Shawn has been good in the past at noticing things some others wouldn't. But he respects me and what I'm doing—how important it is, even though there's a possibility that I could get hurt. Even though he knows that I'm in very good hands, he's concerned for my safety because he loves me. He's thousands of miles away to give me space to work, and he's going to stay right where he is until I'm out. If something were to happen, with him being so far away...” Juliet smiled at her handler, who was looking at her coolly. “I'd just like to be able to call him every few days, just for a couple of minutes, so that he can hear my voice and know I'm all right, to ease his mind and keep up my morale. I could make these calls in your presence, or in Chief Vick's office, when I meet with her about case updates.”

Agent Samantha Clarke pressed her lips together tightly. “You were very highly recommended, Detective O'Hara, but I don't think I need to reiterate that your undercover position is delicate at best.”

Instead of commenting on the fact that she apparently felt the need to reiterate it anyway, Juliet nodded, continuing her solemn eye-contact. “No, ma'am.”

Agent Clarke dropped her own eyes and put her information on Shawn back into its folder. “I'll discuss your request with Supervisory Special Agent Tran and Chief Vick,” she said. 

She was almost positive she was going to get her way, especially if Vick had a say—she had known Juliet for almost three years, knew she could be trusted in many long ways, including how she dealt with Shawn and his inclination to decide he was essential to the solving of any case that interested him—and she was also sure that anything else said on the topic right now would be more likely to hurt her cause than to strengthen her justifications. “Thank you, Agent.”

The next night, at her second check-in call from Agent Clarke, after confirming that her first day as a student had yielded no apparent red flags from anyone in the history department at the university, she was informed that her request to make brief calls to her significant other in the presence of her chief had been granted; Vick had agreed to meet with her for updates three times a week for forty minutes instead of twice a week for an hour, and Juliet would be allowed no more than five minutes in her office with her personal cell phone.

“I'm not listening,” Vick said on Tuesday, after the reports had been given and Juliet flipped open her phone and raised her eyebrows.

Juliet smiled, glad that Vick hadn't also felt the need to not-say-but-say that she needed to watch what she said. “Thank you, Chief.” She sat back in the chair and speed-dialed Shawn while Vick leaned over her desk and clearly gave most of her attention to a case Detectives Donaldson and Blakowicz were investigating.

“Jules!” Shawn greeted, his voice high with glee. “I miss you, how's everything?”

“Hi Shawn,” she said. “Things are going well—it's something of a minefield, but we're navigating. How are you?”

There was a very slight pause, and she knew he'd not only gotten that she wanted him to be careful, but had analyzed her tone and decided it was just precautionary, not a warning. “Bored,” he complained. “Even Siddy is bored—this morning I tied all of the shoelaces in this place together and hung them from the ceiling fan for him to chase, which was good for about half an hour, but then he apparently remembered that he's too good for that kitten trick and thanked me by ralphing on the sofa.” He paused. “I cleaned it up as best as I could, and I don't think it's noticeable now—that's a secret.”

She laughed. “I won't tell. How are you getting along?”

“Fine,” he said after a moment. “Apparently the History Channel is really, really interesting, and so is doing all of the dishes immediately, and also? Following my damn cat around with an air freshener and a lint roller. I mean, I did mention the latter myself a few days ago, but damn, I was kidding.”

Juliet wasn't surprised. “I warned you,” she said. “Just keep things neatened up and everyone will be happy. If you can't think of anything else to do in the evening, you should try some old Clint Eastwood movies—those are always a hit.”

“On the list,” he said. “Though if I have to suffer through some of the more obscure ones I'm going newer too—do you think _Gran Torino_ would be well-received?”

There was another pause, and Juliet could almost hear his awkwardness, which was strange, since he was rarely unsure of himself or his surroundings. She'd known that he was worried not only about her situation, but of being around Carlton so much by himself—that he would accidentally be too irritating or exasperating, that they wouldn't have anything to talk about, that it might sour any future time they spent together.

“That one will probably also be fine, but if you can, I'd stick with what's familiar and well-loved,” she said. “Sometimes old movies start off a little slow, but if you're patient, they get good. You should try some things you're not used to; everything will be all right.”

“I know, I'm trying. Hey, I ate a Brussels sprout last night.”

Juliet had to fight to not burst out laughing at her mental image of that. “You did? How was it?”

“Blech,” he said comfortably. “But I finished the pizza rolls I got for breakfast, and I said I'd try one if I didn't have to help make them. I have the sneaking suspicion the chef du jour is getting a giant kick out of planning the most horrid meals in the universe because I had to be a smart ass about beanpoles and wabbit food. I'm afraid to check the pantry tonight because I'm pretty sure there's no more peanut butter.”

“You could make dinner yourself,” she suggested.

“Bite your tongue,” Shawn said, in his Aghast! voice. “ _Some_ people think a plate of shredded cheese, a peanut butter cup, and a vodka smoothie isn't a sufficient lunch. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that.”

“You'll think of something.” Juliet nodded at Vick when she glanced up at her pointedly. “I need to go, Shawn—I can call you again in a few days, but I can only talk for a few minutes.”

“Right, sure.” He sighed. “Kick it in the ass soon, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said. “Kisses for Siddy and everyone else.”

“I'll pass it on.”

She said goodbye and hung up, then turned her phone off. “Thanks, Chief.”

“Of course.” Vick looked up long enough to give her a quick smile. “I like what I'm hearing about your progress. Keep it up. I'll see you on Thursday.”

“I'll be here.” She set the phone on the desk. “Can you please keep this for me, or have someone put it in my desk? I need to duck into the restroom to put this wig back on and meet Detective Corgan for my escort back to the apartment.”

“Certainly.”

While she stood in front of the mirror and pinned her shortish blonde hair back underneath a dark brown, curly wig, Juliet thought about Shawn being alone during the days, and actually trying hard to be a good house guest—attempting to eat _green_ food, of all things—and hoped that if he took her suggestions, Carlton would also recognize his efforts and perhaps take a day or two off from work, if he could manage it, to keep him distracted and happy. To distract them both—Carlton had his own work to keep his mind busy, but although he hadn't said much when she'd told him about her assignment, she could tell he was recalling how badly things could go for female officers trying to draw out murderers.

Juliet checked her wig's placement to both sides in the mirror as well as she could, made sure the knife strapped to her forearm was still hidden by her loose sleeve, and then exited the police department by a side door, giving a plainclothes detective in a Trailblazer a quick smile when he popped the lock for her. He saw her to her temporary home and left with a small salute, and she settled down on the hard sofa and switched the TV on, flicking through channels quickly until she saw a pale face with inordinately red hair: Molly Ringwald. She almost turned to call Shawn, remembered that she was alone, and sighed.


	6. Sorry Doesn't Feed the Bulldog

Siddy walked into the kitchen, sat in the middle of the floor, and stared. “I know,” Shawn said, sighing and raising his hands out of the hot water to look at the suds covering them. “I'm not sure what's happening either. Suffice it to say that I'm really fucking bored, and you were being a tool and sleeping in the window instead of playing with me.”

Siddy meowed in protest, but Shawn couldn't tell if he was protesting this last jibe, or life in general. He was a cat, so who knew.

“I know,” Shawn told him again. “I already suggested throwing all of the plates in the air and using them for target practice, but apparently that's unbecoming of an officer, or something hicks do, so I'll just wash these and surprise Lassie with clean dishes. Maybe he'll get a kitchen boner and make me something to eat that doesn't suck. I can dream, right?”

Siddy got on board and started washing his paws. That's what Shawn liked about him—solidarity. He grinned to himself as he rinsed some silverware and emptied the basin, remembering how he'd tried to join Sid the Kid in some active shedding last spring to help his feline friend protest Juliet's horrid yellow sofa attempt. It had seemed to work—at least she agreed to move on to a new sofa that didn't look like it belonged to anyone's old maiden aunt—and had been really funny until Jules had the nerve to point out that he was apparently trying to willingly bald himself because he felt weird sitting on something that resembled molded egg yolk. 

There were car sounds in the driveway, and a moment later the front door opened. Siddy scrambled on the floor and jetted down the hall to make sure it wasn't a walking can of Pounce, and Shawn squeezed Dawn onto a sponge to attack the counter. He looked over his shoulder and grinned widely when he saw Lassie in the doorway, looking confused. “Hi,” he said. “I was bored.”

“Apparently.” Lassie looked at the dripping dishes in the rack and raised his eyebrows.

“I did the laundry too,” Shawn said nonchalantly, dabbing at some jam dribbles from his breakfast. “I didn't know where everything went, so I also reorganized your closet. I put my favorites in the front and everything you should never ever wear again in the back, behind your sad SPBD sweatshirt.”

“Thanks.”

His tone was weird, so Shawn glanced up at him again and raised his eyebrows. “What's up, pup?”

Lassiter had an odd look on his face too, and he hesitated before speaking. “There's someone meeting me here,” he said. “Any minute, actually. I pressed a little too hard about a case today, and when one of the newer detectives agreed that working after hours on our own time to close it was important, I couldn't think of a way to say no without coming off like a hypocrite.”

Of course Lassie would still be doing that much of the casework himself, despite his promotion; he did have a very impressive arrest record, and Shawn wasn't surprised in the least that he still saw every case as his responsibility. But this look wasn't his Determined Detective look, it was something else. Shawn tilted his head a little to the side, studying him, and when Lassie's eyes slid away from him, he got it. “Ahh,” he said, squeezing the soapy sponge over the sink. “You want me to hide so they don't think you're gay?”

Lassie looked at him sharply and opened his mouth, but seemed to have nothing at all to say to that, so he closed it again, and then he pressed his lips together in the direction of the table. 

“It's okay,” Shawn said, meaning it. He rinsed out the sponge and dried off his hands.

“I'm sorry,” Lassiter said. “I—it's—” 

Shawn waved at him to stop. “No, really, it's fine—I've been around in the South, remember? Mississippi and Alabama, not Georgia, but same diff. I get it: people knowing you sleep with guys here is not like people knowing you do in California, and cops can be a whole 'nother barrel of fish. I'm sure I can find somewhere to go for a few hours.”

Lassie sighed. “I'll make it up to you,” he said.

Shawn gave him a grin. “Yeah,” he said. “You will.”

It was honestly, actually, purely by accident that he ended up wandering into a gay bar. _Really_ , he thought, as he glanced around at the guy-guy couples in booths and the few at the bar trading googly eyes. _Well, it's called_ The Bulldog, _who was I to think it was a sports bar_. To be fair, there _was_ football on two of the televisions, but he somehow doubted your run-of-the-mill good-ol'-boy sports establishment would have a small rainbow flag next to a Braves pennant near the cash register. He considered trying to find somewhere else to hang out until Lassie was done detectiving, but this place was as good as any, and he could probably flirt his way into a couple of free drinks. No harm in that.

Shawn eased onto a stool and smiled at the bartender when he glanced over, getting an easy grin back. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” the bartender said. “What's your pleasure?”

“Man, don't ask me _that_ ,” Shawn said, and licked his lips. “For now, how about vodka pineapple?”

“Sure thing.”

While the bartender set a glass on the counter and got out a carton of juice from a small fridge, Shawn checked his phone for the time and to see if he had any texts from Lassie, who had said he would come pick him up wherever he was when the other detective had left. He set it on the bar and got out a five-dollar bill for his liquid sunshine, but then he noticed the man on the stool next to his own eyeing him. “Howdy,” he said.

The other man grinned slowly and then made eye contact with the bartender when he set Shawn's drink next to his phone. “That on my tab,” he said. 

“Thanks, man,” Shawn said, and paid him back with the sort of grin that usually made Lassie focus all of his attention on Shawn's face.

The man on the next stool nodded, still smiling, and held out his hand. “Welcome. Matt.”

“James,” Shawn said, and shook with him. He wasn't sure why he'd immediately gone with the name he'd used when he'd been roaming the country and stopped in at various sorts of bars, but it definitely wasn't because he for some reason felt weird about flirting with dudes when there was already a dude currently sharing a bed with him, albeit temporarily. 

Matt was good for another two drinks while they talked about one of the football games that was on, at least until he very pointedly glanced at the bathroom and made a hand gesture underneath the bar. Shawn picked up his phone and checked for texts again, pretending he hadn't seen, but it was more difficult to pretend he didn't notice the hand now nudging his knee.

“Hey,” he said, very softly, and tilted his head toward the bathroom again. “Follow me?”

“Nah,” Shawn said, his eyes still on his phone.

“Come on,” Matt said, his voice lower but his breathing a little heavier. “Just for a minute.”

Shawn had to fight not to smirk at that. “Your advertising could use a boost, there, buddy,” he said. “But really, I'm good right here.”

“Why not?”

He was bored of this, and it was so obvious he could just about cry, or kiss a pig, or whatever else they did down here. “Because your wife's wondering where you are,” he said, trying to be nice about it. 

Matt's face colored and he recoiled, glancing around guiltily before apparently deciding a quick exit was his best bet. Shawn almost said something more to him, like, “Sorry” or “Thanks for the drinks”, but it didn't really matter.

“Wow,” the bartender said, collecting the half-empty beer bottle and the napkin it had been sitting on. “How'd you know? He wasn't wearing his ring.”

Shawn shrugged. “I'm psychic.”

The bartender snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“Nah, just lucky.” Lucky to have heard Matt's phone chime with texts seven times, all on commercial breaks during a popular reality show that happened to be on one of the TVs in the back that he could conveniently see reflected in the mirror behind the bar—seven was a lot for a girlfriend, and he hadn't checked the phone once. Shawn had also seen the bartender glance in their direction a few more times than was necessary to check the states of their drinks, which had all gone on a tab Matt had liberally assaulted, and not settled before he left, which the bartender seemed to take in stride.

“Guesso,” the bartender agreed, then nodded to the almost-empty drink at Shawn's elbow. “You want to hit that again? On the house.”

Shawn grinned, pleasantly buzzed already and in good spirits again, especially since he could tell the bartender was just being nice, not looking for someone to hook up with. “Sure, thanks.”

Twenty minutes later, as he was upping his buzz to a tipsy, going on sloshy, his phone finally buzzed with a text. _Where are you? I can come get you_ , from Sassy Kinda Classy.

 _A bar called bulldog_ , he sent back. He looked up for the friendly bartender, to ask why it was called that, but he was serving a couple of college-aged guys, and the other bartender wasn't nearly so chatty. 

His phone buzzed again: _Why are you at a gay bar?_

He snorted. _Why do u know its a gay bar?_ This should be good. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing... then, finally: _I'll be there in 15 mins._

“Uh uh, Sass-Master,” he told the phone. “You're not getting away with that one.” How _did_ Lassie know The Bulldog was a gay bar? Shawn decided it was his current mission in life to get a satisfactory answer to that, and he kind of hoped it wasn't something lame like all the cops knowing which bars generally served which sort of patrons because of fights or other crap. On the other hand, had Lassie... come here? Had he had a sort of existential crisis with his sexuality after that first time last summer, and before Shawn and Jules had come to visit? Lassie had outright told them that Shawn was the only guy he'd ever been sexual with—which was great for a case of the warm fuzzies and the hard bonesies—but Shawn thought it would be nothing short of adorable if Carlton Lassiter had timidly set his skinny bod on a stool to scope out dudes, and then left all in a flutter when someone made a move on him. Shawn was grinning rapturously into his empty glass over this fantasy when his phone chimed again, Lassie wanting to know where the hell he was. He left a ten underneath his glass for the bartender and caught his eye, ticking a finger off his forehead in a salute as he got up. The bartender held up his hand and went to clean up his glass as Shawn bounced to the door. 

“Two things,” he said, once he managed to successfully slide into the front seat of Lassie's car and get the door closed securely enough.

“Seat belt,” Lassie said.

“Pfffffft,” Shawn said, rolling his eyes and grabbing at the strap. He attempted to fasten the latch together three times before Lassie gave him an incredulous look, snatched it out his hands, and clicked it home. “That wasn't my things,” he said. “Hey, you kicked me out earlier.”

“I did not,” Lassiter snapped, and then he glared at the road as they exited the parking lot, because he had.

Shawn beamed at him. “Yes you did. But that's okay, because look—I have two things. One: seriously, how did you know that place was a gay bar? Is there a story there? I like stories.”

“No story,” Lassie said. “There were a few altercations called in a couple of months ago and I sent a few officers over there.” He gave Shawn an almost unreadable look. “I've never patronized the place myself.”

Shawn clicked his tongue. “That's too bad. There's a really hot bartender there.”

“Is that why you're drunk?”

“No, sir. I'm drunk because of Welcome Matt.”

Lassie looked at him but apparently decided that one wasn't worth pursuing. “Was that your other thing?”

“Huh? Oh! No, nuh uh.” Shawn grinned, leaning over far enough to rest the side of his face on Lassie's arm. “My other thing is that I am going to suck your dick like a peppermint stick.”

Lassie was trying not to grin, but couldn't make it, gave up, and briefly put his arm around Shawn's shoulders. “I thought I was supposed to be making up with you,” he said, and then took his arm back. “Sit up.”

“Oh, you are,” Shawn said, making himself upright again. “I didn't say _when_ I was going to. Second place wins the race.”

Lassie snorted laughter. “Why is it that your logic is so often inherently flawed, yet you turn out to be right almost all of the time?”

“Dude, don't... ask me stuff,” Shawn said, gesturing vaguely to the sky. “Just take me to bed, and hold me, and do me.”

“I will,” Lassie promised, and laid his hand on the inside of Shawn's thigh, his thumb caressing a small spot as he drove.


	7. Reduce Boil to a Low Simmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning: This chapter contains talk of, and non-detailed, consensual rough angry sex that causes pain.

Lassiter didn't get home until almost one o'clock Friday morning; he was in a hugely pissy mood and felt a moderate satisfaction in giving the front door a savage kick closed, and then he noticed Shawn's cat staring at him reproachfully. “What the hell are you looking at?” he demanded. The cat didn't flinch, but seemed to squint at him like Shawn sometimes did. Lassiter threw his briefcase into the easy chair and stalked to the bedroom, hoping Shawn was asleep, although he knew it was unlikely.

His first thoughts at the sight of Shawn sitting up cross-legged in his bed in only his shorts, headphone cords and various chargers in a tangle around his phone, his iPod, and his laptop, the blankets pushed back into a snakelike coil, and a huge bowl of popcorn on Lassiter's pillow, were also unlikely: _Well, doesn't he look comfortable—he's made himself a fucking nest. He looks like he thinks he absolutely belongs right fucking there._

Shawn glanced up and grinned. “Hiya, Lass. You weren't kidding when you said late, but I don't mind waiting. You gonna come to bed?”

_He looks like your fucking boyfriend._

“I'm going to go to sleep,” he snapped. “Which is what you should be doing. I didn't ask you to wait up for me. Clean up this crap.”

“Okay,” Shawn said agreeably, and began winding cords around his electronics. Lassiter turned around and tried not to slam the bathroom door as he went through; he also tried to tell himself not to take his puke of a day out on Shawn, but he knew he'd always been absolutely horrible at keeping work at work. Definitely better if both of them just went to sleep before he said or did something actually unwarranted. 

When he came back out, Shawn was still sitting up, but Lassiter's side of the bed was cleared off and the blankets were smoothed out again. He could see Shawn watching him carefully as he flung his shirt into the chair in the corner and emptied the pockets of his trousers into a heap on his dresser. He shucked them off and flung them into the chair as well, and then he shut off the lamp on his side and flopped down on his back, his jaw set as he glared at the ceiling. Shawn took the hint and switched off the lamp on the other side, and then he stretched out on his side for a moment before scooting closer and trying to cuddle up, laying an arm across Lassiter's stomach.

He tensed, still too pissed off to feel in the mood for anything physical except maybe slamming his fist into something, like the faces of a few of his so-called officers, repeatedly. “No,” he said shortly.

He could almost feel Shawn's confusion as he withdrew his arm. “Super bad day?” he asked softly.

“What do you think?” he snapped again.

“My money's definitely on Lassie and the No Good Horrible Very Bad Day,” Shawn said. He paused, and in the scant light from the streetlamp outside Lassiter could see the outline of his spiky hair tilted in consideration. “You want to talk about it?” Shawn asked after a minute. “You can rant and rave and froth, and if you want to lie on your stomach I'll rub your back.”

The thing about this stage of his rage, when nothing could be done to satisfy it and he was forced to stew in it until it slowly bubbled away, was that he didn't want someone to soothe and pet him out of it—the more anyone tried, the angrier he was going to get, until he was able to explode or let out some of his aggression in another way. The firing range was usually a good spot, but that wasn't going to happen in the small hours of the morning. The fucked-up thing was that sometimes he liked being this angry, that he sometimes enjoyed how terrifying he could be to those around him, that it almost never mattered who took the brunt of his wrath—just that someone did.

He tried to inhale slowly, reminding himself again that Shawn hadn't done anything to deserve any of it, and that of all of the people in the entire world, he was one of just three that Lassiter felt he should watch himself around, that he actually wouldn't want to hurt. “No,” he said again, trying to keep his voice even. “If you can't tell, I am extremely pissed off right now, and your best move right now is to go to sleep and let me sleep it off. I'm really not in the mood for anything, not even talking.”

“Oh.” There was another considering pause. “Not even screwing? You don't have to talk for that, and you might feel better if you have that kind of release.”

“I don't think you would like me right now,” Lassiter said flatly.

“I always like you,” Shawn said.

His hands were in fists; it was a bad idea, and worse that he was considering it. He really, really didn't want to hurt Shawn. He just wanted to hurt him a little.

“Lassie?”

“Go to sleep,” he said harshly, and tried one more time to explain as best as he currently could. “I sincerely doubt I'm capable of being gentle with anyone right now, and that includes you. So unless you don't want to sit down tomorrow, I suggest you drop it.”

“Because I've never spent an entire day lounging in bed before?” Shawn's tone was low and amused, and Lassiter took in a slow breath when he realized what else he heard in it, something he'd heard dozens of times before and didn't mistake now—curiosity, interest, determination. Shawn was not going to just go to sleep, not until he either got what he wanted, which was for some reason to assuage Lassiter's rage, or until he was rebuffed completely.

He managed to unclench his jaw enough to speak, though his fists tightened further. “I'm serious, Spencer.”

“I'd be shocked out of my garters if you weren't,” Shawn said, his voice now very soft. There was a whisper at the other end of the bed where his foot moved a little, restlessly, but he made no attempt to touch the other man again—so he was taking the warnings seriously, but he still wasn't moving back to the other side. “It's okay, Lassie,” he said. “You can do whatever you want to me, I'm yours.”

Lassiter's breath stopped for a second, caught in his chest, before he could make it go on. “You don't mean that,” he said, unsure which part of the statement he was even referring to.

“Sure I do,” Shawn said comfortably. “You want to fuck me into next week, I'm on board.” He paused. “If you're going to be really rough, that's okay too. That's what safewords were made for.” Another pause. “Do you want to hurt me?”

Lassiter jerked, as much at hearing it aloud as Shawn's unnerving near-telepathy. “No!”

“It's okay,” Shawn said again, the amused tinge to his voice returning. “I wouldn't go for it every night, but once in awhile... like I said, that's what safewords are for. If I can use one and you can back off, you can do anything you want to me. I trust you.”

“I would just fuck you,” Lassiter said quietly. “Very. Hard.”

“With the intention to hurt me?” When he didn't get an answer, Shawn pressed on. “I'll let you,” he said, “but you need to be clear about what you want to do to me, and we need to set the safeword in advance, which needs to be something I'd never normally say, like 'mineapple'.” He considered that. “But not that, because I've totally said that. So. Lassie? Is that what you want?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Okay, then,” Shawn said lightly. “One-two-three-green light.”

Lassiter turned on his side and threw out an arm at the same time, gripping Shawn's shoulder and shoving him down so that he was fully on his back, and Lassiter was on top of him at once, barely noticing how Shawn immediately spread his legs and raised his arms up by his head. Lassiter pressed on him with his fully aroused crotch and pinned his forearms to the mattress, squeezing tightly and holding him down with almost all of his weight. It was too dark to see his eyes, or his face, but he heard Shawn inhale, his entire body completely still for probably the first time since they'd met. Lassiter just held him like that for several moments, waiting to see if he would squirm, or say something, but he didn't. He meant it.

“My name,” Lassiter said, his voice barely a whisper, but even. “Say it.”

He could see Shawn's amused smirk even though it was too dark to see anything. “Lassie,” he said obediently, his voice a little breathless, and his tone confirmed his expression. “I'm not calling you 'daddy' next,” he added.

Lassiter pressed him into the bed harder. “No,” he said. “My _name_. You never say it. Say it now. I want to hear you.”

“Carlton,” Shawn said reluctantly, and now he did squirm, just a little, his hands closing into loose fists for just a second before opening again, showing his palms in a second act of submission. Lassiter was holding his arms so tightly that he could feel his bones move as his fingers flexed.

He smiled at that and leaned forward to kiss him. Shawn tried to slip him his tongue, but he backed away. “That's your safety,” he said softly, and kissed him again, though he was still holding him down as hard as ever. “If you say my _name_ , I won't think twice, because I'll know you need me to take you seriously.” One more kiss, this one on his cheek, so that Lassiter could whisper the rest into his ear. “But speak up. Because I am going to make you holler. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shawn said, and turned his face quickly to kiss him back. 

Later, he rested easily on his side, with both of Lassiter's arms wrapped around him—one underneath his head and across his chest while he used Lassiter's bicep for a pillow, one around his middle—and Lassiter himself molded to the back of him with his face almost pressed into his soft hair. Shawn had indeed hollered; he had also gasped and panted, his voice nothing but high-pitched yips that he tried to hold onto but couldn't. He had whimpered repeatedly, and twice he had said “Lassie”—Lassiter had slowed at this, waiting to see if he would give the signal that he needed to stop, but he didn't. After Lassiter had finished (and Shawn had been right, of course, the explosive release had dissolved all of his remaining aggression instantly), Shawn had been breathing hard, his body shaking, and Lassiter had bent down to put both arms around him to hold him close and kiss him.

“Are you all right?” he'd asked him, still feeling him tremble.

“Sure,” he'd said at once, his breath still trying to regain its normal rhythm. “Takes more than a dynamo dicking to dunk me down.”

Lassiter laid a hand on his cheek and kissed him again, softly, fully in control of himself again and able to be—wanting to be—gentle with him now. “Do you want to come?” he asked. 

Shawn took another deep breath, still shaky but not as much, as he continued to come down and relax. “Nah,” he said, after a long moment.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I just—um, will you hold me? That would be nice.”

His voice had been very quiet, almost timid. “Of course,” Lassiter had told him, and moved off of him long enough to lie next to him again and hold his arms open. They were fit together very comfortably now, both of them warm and serene.

When Lassiter's alarm went off for work the next morning, they were still exactly as they'd been five hours earlier, and for an instant all of his rage was back, although a good ninety percent of it was directed at the clock radio blaring 'Eye of the Tiger'—he'd noticed before that this particular station regularly played it at exactly seven o'clock, as if lots of people in the area thought it a great tune to start the day with. He was loathe to retract his arms from around Shawn, but the power of his will failed again and he was forced to pull back not one but both in order to hoist himself up on one elbow and slam the snooze button to shut it up.

“ _Fuck_ that stupid song,” he muttered.

“Song made me lose a bike race,” Shawn mumbled, his eyes still closed.

Lassiter flopped back down on his back, one hand scrubbing over his eyes and the stubble on his cheeks. “That song makes us all lose the human race.”

Shawn snickered and turned over onto his back as well. “C'mon Lass, I'm sure you can get into the thrill of the fight. Rise up to the challenge of your rivals.”

“They can rise up to this,” he said, aiming both middle fingers at the window that looked out toward the driveway when the shades weren't pulled.

Shawn peeked an eye open and then grinned. “Yeah, it sounds like a 'sit-n-spin' sort of situation.”

He didn't want to go to work, not exactly a new thing since he'd been in Macon, especially since he'd taken the assistant-chief job (which was more glorified baby-sitting than it was worth most days). But that morning he _really_ didn't want to deal with their laziness and improper procedure and downright disrespect and insubordination, and that morning he felt like he had more than a little something to make up to the person lying next to him. So fuck Survivor, and if that's what any of the Macon PD wanted to be come Monday, they were going to eat his personal day with a smile and like it.

He turned on his side and put an arm around Shawn again, who immediately put his own hand on Lassiter's forearm and nuzzled his face into Lassiter's neck. “Mmm,” he sighed. “Gonna get ready to lose your religion, or raise Cain, or whatever?”

“Nope.”

“Really?” Shawn sounded mildly surprised, but he didn't pull away, and the feeling of his lips moving against the sensitive skin of Lassiter's neck made him close his eyes and pull him closer. “Wow, that worked better than I thought.”

“Oh, I'm still going to get every last one of them that got to me yesterday,” he promised. “I have a list.”

Shawn snickered again. “I bet you do—it's all naughties, though, right? Did you check it t—hey, am I on it?”

“No. And yes, I've checked it twice, because apparently I'm fucking Santa Claus.”

“That's how you get everything you want for Christmas,” Shawn said wisely. 

Lassiter snorted and then he gently pulled back so he could reach for his cell phone. “No, I'm going to call in today,” he said. “Be quiet for a minute.”

“Okay, but just a minute. If you're going to spend the day with me, I'm going to—oh, uh, are you?”

“Yes.” He shook his head slightly as he browsed his contacts for the chief. Never would he ever have suspected he'd be calling in to work, as an assistant-chief no less (when he wasn't even sick!), to spend the day with Shawn Spencer instead. Of course, one year ago he never would have suspected lots of things.

He wasn't surprised that the chief didn't sound surprised—in fact, he said it was a good idea for Lassiter to take a three-day weekend. Maybe there had been some complaints about him. Lassiter decided he didn't care, and after he tossed his phone back into his night table he got up to go start the shower. He used the toilet quickly and then checked the water temperature, decided it was right, and went back into the bedroom to rouse Shawn again.

He was laying on his front now, his arms wrapped around his head, and Lassiter's call froze in his chest when he saw the bruises all over his hips, legs, and arms. He stood in the doorway, unable to stop staring or to think of a single thing to say, and then he realized Shawn had moved one of his arms and was looking back at him. 

“I know,” he said. “I'm a fox. That water good and hot?”

“Yeah.”

Shawn stretched, then rolled over onto his back, sat up, and swung his legs onto the floor. He stood up and walked forward slowly, yawning. “Come wash my hair for me,” he said. “I like that.”

“Sure,” Lassiter said numbly.

Shawn stood almost completely still in the steaming shower stall while Lassiter gently wet his hair and massaged his scalp. Shawn made an “mmm” noise and leaned into him with his eyes closed. “Hey,” he said, after a few minutes. “You never told me what you were so mad about.”

“Work,” Lassiter said, having already decided that Shawn didn't need to know about the main issue that had upped his rage. “Just a bunch of little stuff. Well, not so much little... some of the 'officers' here are just piss-poor excuses for human beings, and I'm losing my patience with them.”

“Patience? What's that?”

“It's the thing that stopped me from knocking you on your ass a time or two back in Santa Barbara,” Lassiter said, gently sliding one soaped finger along the back of Shawn's neck. “It's also what saved me from shooting people last night.”

“Wow, I guess they really must have gotten to the center of your Tootsie Pop.” Shawn stood up more fully in order to duck his head underneath the spray and rinse the shampoo out of his hair. “At least the next time they get you that wound up, you can just fuck me 'til I cry, then take a three-day vacay and be in the pink again.”

Lassiter had just been studying the bruises and marks on him again, and he flicked his eyes up, watching him carefully. “You didn't,” he said softly, not quite a question.

Shawn rinsed his face, getting hot water in his mouth and then spurting it back out like a fountain. “Nah.” He glanced over at him, and Lassiter had no idea whether or not he was telling the truth. “It was intense, though,” he said. “Like I said, not an every day sort of thing, but—” He paused to smile, “—you should see what Jules does to me some day. Maybe you will. Trust me, it's hot. In case you haven't noticed, I kind of like it when someone totally puts it to me.”

“I did notice that.” Lassiter sighed quietly, and then he squeezed some body wash on a scrubby sponge thing, put an arm around Shawn's shoulders, and started gently washing the rest of him. “Speaking of Juliet,” he said after a moment. “Have you spoken to her again?”

“Yeah, yesterday actually.” Shawn had closed his eyes again, enjoying the treatment he was getting. “She called when I was at the Sports Hall of Fame, but still we only had a few minutes.” He made a face that was pouty and irritated, but his tone betrayed the worry that was still there. “I hate that I'm not allowed to contact her at all—I just have to wait every few days to talk to her for five minutes and hope she's not dead in the meantime.”

“Mmm,” Lassiter said softly. “I guess now you know what it feels like.”

Shawn opened his eyes, surprised and then suspicious. “What what feels like?”

“When someone you care about voluntarily goes charging off into something dangerous, and there's nothing you can do or say to change their mind.”

“I don't do that,” he said, but without conviction.

“That wasn't you who had a gun on him at least three times in the year he crashed every other case I got?” Lassiter asked, raising an eyebrow. “And risked his life what seemed like every week?”

“No, that was Gus. I've been meaning to talk to him about that.”

“Right, Gus. The man who sympathy-cries at animal shelter commercials.”

“I don't blame him, those are some sad homeless puppies. You should get a dog, Lassie. I won't even make you call it Lassie.”

“I don't like dogs,” Lassiter said, adding more soap to the scrubby thing and lathering it up. “Remember how much your stupid cat was uninvited?”

“My cat is smarter than you give him credit for,” Shawn said. “I tried to give him some of that leftover blob you made for dinner the day before yesterday and then told me was my lunch, and he threatened to kill me in my sleep if I didn't give him real food, like ice cream.”

“The cat talks to you? Threatens you, even?”

“He's a cat, so yeah.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes and gave Shawn a small push so that his back rested against the wall, and then he grinned when Shawn gasped at how cold it was compared to the steaming water. He stepped closer and pressed into him, using one hand filled with soap lather to absolutely and thoroughly clean his dick, which was almost instantly hard. Shawn's eyes fluttered closed and he leaned his head back when Lassiter moved his hand down to his balls, rubbing and squeezing, and then he moaned softly when Lassiter leaned down and sucked gently on his neck. His fingers circled the base of Shawn's cock tightly, and then he stroked to the head, over the head, back and forth with his hand until Shawn was thrusting forward and panting, and then he took mercy and quickly used the detachable shower head to rinse the soap from him before dropping to his knees and sucking him up and down. 

He started to get a little hard himself at the noises Shawn was making and the way they sounded with the acoustics in the shower, not to mention the slick firmness of Shawn's cock and the way it fit in his mouth, how he could control Shawn's trembling and moaning by how fast he bent his neck, how his tongue slid up the underside of the shaft, how tightly he closed his lips around the head and sucked on it. He looked up at Shawn, who was tightly gripping the shelf for soap in the wall with one hand, and when Shawn met his eyes and thrust his cock farther into Lassiter's mouth, he felt his own cock throb a little more. He put both hands on Shawn's hips and braced him against the wall, holding him there securely while his head bobbed back and forth. 

“Oh, oh, Lassie, _Lassie_ ,” Shawn panted, and he put his other hand on the back of his neck to help him with the right pace. His grip became tight and his cock slammed into Lassiter's throat, his entire lower body bucking into him as he came. Lassiter didn't mind choking a little as long as he knew the cause and that he would breathe again shortly, so he let Shawn ride it out, fucking his mouth, filling it and gasping out a mixture of swearing and his name until he sighed and let go of his neck and collapsed back onto the wall. Lassiter spit on the drain and then he stood up, wiping at his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, and Shawn grabbed his head and stuck his tongue into his mouth. Lassiter pushed him fully against the wall, both hands on his sides as he kissed him, and he could feel Shawn tasting his lips and tongue and then exhaling through his nose, satisfied. He thought it was a little weird how much Shawn liked tasting his own semen in someone else's mouth, but it was a little arousing too. He smiled as Shawn made an “mmmm” sound, licking his lips and leaning back, thinking that 'weird and arousing' was a good way to put how he felt about the little shit with the big mouth these days.

“That was nice,” Shawn said, almost sighing up at him. “Your turn? I'm not ready for you to fuck me again yet, but I could play shadow.” He reached down for Lassiter's cock, but Lassiter took his hand before he could touch him and slid his fingers around it, moving them both under the spray for a final rinse instead.

“Not yet,” he said, and gave him one last kiss on the shoulder before shutting the tap off and opening the door so that some of the steam could dissipate. “What do you want to do today?”

“You?”

“Already?”

Shawn grinned. “Nah, not yet—later. For now... breakfast?” His expression was hopeful for about half a second before it turned stern. “But if you try to give me anything with vegetables today, I swear to Dog. I'm sorry for the beanpole comment, okay? I give. You're skinny but sexy, but your meals are getting weirder and I've been punished. What even _was_ that blob? Lassie, it was _grey_.”

Lassiter turned away to get a towel and so Shawn wouldn't see how big his smirk was. “I'm not entirely sure,” he said. “I kind of mashed a bunch of crap together when you weren't looking. I just wanted to see if I could get you to eat it.” He turned back around to offer another towel, trying to look innocent. “Rabbit food looking good now?”

Shawn looked incredulous, his mouth half open. “Duck you, Lassie,” he said.


	8. Eats, Shoots, and Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not personally approve of some of the uncool language used by some characters in this chapter.

As it turned out, Lassiter was as completely competent—no, more than that, pretty awesome actually—at making delicious apology food as he was at making strange punishment food. That really said something about how well he knew Shawn, and Lassie had never been one to pull punches—he went right where the money was.

Shawn lounged on the sofa while his interest rose higher and higher at the smell coming from the kitchen, and when Lassie brought him a plate and set it on his stomach, he nearly applauded. There was a short stack with powdered sugar and strawberry syrup, crisp hash browns with sausage gravy, and giant, fluffy clumps of scrambled egg with tiny shreds of cheese that were melting. Shawn was busy gazing at all of this in wonder when Lassie brought him the rest—a small dish with freshly cut pineapple, a glass of Sunny Delight (not even orange juice!), and a cup of coffee fixed just the way he liked it. 

“Wow,” Shawn said, truly impressed. Siddy came over to investigate the smell and Shawn hissed at him, hugging the plate to his chest. “Mine, devil feline.” He glanced up at Lassiter, who still looked like a mix of chagrin and regret, and tried on his best You Know You Love Me grin. “Lassie... would you pretty pretty please feed my kitty? Then he'll leave me alone so I can fall to this astonishing repast with the full force of my gusto.”

Lassiter sighed. “Fine. What's the stupid cat get?”

“Stupid cat food,” Shawn said. “I put the cans in the pantry on the floor, he gets one poured out onto a paper plate.” Lassiter gave the cat an annoyed look, but then he turned to go back into the kitchen. Siddy looked so confused when he heard the top pull off the can but saw Shawn still lying where he was that Shawn laughed and almost choked on a hunk of pancake. “Go on, buddy,” he said. “Don't tell Lassie that I got you the smart food, though—we'll keep him in the dark about our master plans.”

“I heard that,” Lassie called.

Shawn crossed his lips with his forefinger, which had Sid's attention due to the glob of gravy on the end of it. “Shh,” he said. “He still thinks I have it,” Shawn called back after a moment, having to push Siddy away when he tried to jump up on his lap. “Can you rattle the can or something?”

Instead of hearing a small tin rattling, Shawn heard a moderately loud tin crash as the can hit the side of the trash bin. Lassie came back into the room with his own plate of food, set it on the coffee table, made a swipe for Siddy, got him by the back of the neck, and hauled him into the kitchen. Shawn smirked at how terrified the poor cat looked, but then he heard the familiar smacking sounds his pet made when attempting to inhale breakfast, and he settled more comfortably against the arm of the sofa to gulp his fake juice. Lassiter came back into the living room with his coffee mug, and he eased into his armchair with his plate and the TV remote.

Shawn brightened. “Oooh, can we watch—”

“No.”

“You don't even know what I was going to say!”

“My TV, my remote,” Lassiter said, and turned on the cable box. Shawn started to pout down at his food, remembered he had amazing food to continue stuffing into his face, and then froze with his mouth full of pineapple when Lassie selected the Cartoon Network, which was showing Merrie Melodies, and turned it up. He tried to make a show of ignoring Shawn's huge grin while tucking into his own breakfast, but he caved and gave him a small grin back when Bugs caused Yosemite Sam to have a meltdown. “That's you,” Lassie said, motioning to the screen with the end of his fork. “I'm honestly surprised you've never pulled a lit stick of dynamite from literally nowhere.”

“I am a stinker,” Shawn agreed, still beaming. “Tell me I'm dithpicable, you Daffy Lass.”

“Shut up and eat your food or I'll turn it to CNN.”

Shawn obediently shut and shoveled. When his plate was clear, he set it on the table and took up his coffee, sighing contentedly. “Don't tell Jules,” he said, closely watching a commercial for bubbles that _glowed_ in the dark, “but that was better than hers. All this time, I seriously never knew you could actually cook.”

“Because pancakes are so difficult.”

“They can be,” Shawn insisted. “I tried making them once. It was really weird—they tasted like pretzels. And I used the exact same recipe Jules does.” He leaned over and used the end of one finger to pick up the rest of the gravy from the hash browns, and sucked on it a moment. “My dad tried making me learn how to cook when I was in high school,” he went on. “That was a momentous failure—turns out cooking skips a generation or something. Who taught you?”

Lassie shrugged. “Taught myself. My mother worked when I was in school, so I often made dinner for myself and my sister.” He paused. “My ex-wife was never very good at it, but she got irritated if I tried to help or to tell her what she was doing wrong.”

“How did you say it?” Shawn asked. He realized he didn't know Lassie's ex's name, but went on anyway. “'Wife, you suck like an Electrolux, and you're not following protocol for that meatloaf,'” he said, in his best Lassie voice. “'Rule 48 indicates that if you use regular breadcrumbs instead of Italian, you're useless to the kitchen department.'”

“I don't sound like that!” Lassiter snapped, and then he paused. “Crap,” he muttered. “I do sound like that, don't I?”

“Sometimes,” Shawn said. “I mean, I have no idea if you sounded like that to her—I was just teasing, man.”

“Well, I never said anything like _that_ , but...” He grimaced. “I'm often forced to work with or alongside total morons,” he said. “And as I'm entirely sure you've noticed by now if you haven't before, I'm not very good at separating my frustrations. I'm sorry that I hurt you, Shawn. Don't say that I didn't, because we both know that wouldn't be true.” 

Shawn shrugged, at a loss for what to say now, and when Lassie looked at him, he scrambled for a way to forestall the rest of the apology and the guilt, but he blanked, and then a closer look told him it didn't matter anyway—whether or not he needed to hear it, Lassie needed to say it. 

“I shouldn't have done that,” he went on. “Even though you said it was okay, even though you didn't say stop, I'm still sorry. Under... normal circumstances, I honestly wouldn't want to do anything to cause you pain. Or Juliet.” He sighed, gazing at his plate again. “You two and my little sister are the only people in the world that aren't complete shits.”

“What about your mom?” Shawn asked, before he knew he was going to say anything.

Lassie shrugged, and then he gave a small laugh. “We could talk about parents,” he said. “Or we could do something, since you're finished. I thought maybe the gun range—with the situations you get yourself into, _Long Shawn Silver_ , it's high time you learned how to handle a pistol. I could teach you to shoot.”

Shawn grinned, not mentioning the fact that he'd known how to operate firearms for most of his life, and that he had casual, near-perfect aim that made his own father jealous. “Sounds good,” he said.

An hour later, he was trying hard to decide a) if showing off would make Lassie impressed or annoyed, and b) if he could stop himself from showing off even if he thought he'd better. It turned out that the answer to the first quandary was “both”, and the answer to the second was “no”. 

“I hate you,” Lassiter said, staring in disbelief. “Tell me you already knew how to do this.”

Shawn tried on his innocent look, which was spoiled by his cheesy Aren't I Awesome grin. “I didn't want to make you feel like you just totally wasted half an hour. It was good teaching, really—I was listening and everything.”

“I'd rather have wasted thirty minutes explaining everything to you about that weapon than to find out you've never touched one before, and could do this instantly.”

“I can shoot,” Shawn admitted. “And I _am_ that good. It's like you keep forgetting who my dad is.”

“Right,” Lassie said, giving the almost perfect target sheet another disgusted glance. “Goddammit, is there anything you _can't_ do?”

“I can't do this,” Shawn said, and stuck his tongue out, trying to do that curl-thing Gus and Jules and _everyone else on the planet_ could make happen. He still had hope that one day, if he tried hard enough, it would work. Not that a lot depended on it—he just wanted to know what it felt like.

Lassiter looked confused. “You can't look like an idiot? Because you're wrong—you do that brilliantly.”

“No, that tongue thing! With the—the sides, all curled up?”

“Oh, this?”

“Ugh!” Shawn said, turning his back when Lassie rolled his tongue perfectly. “Everyone can do that!”

“Everyone but you,” Lassie teased.

Shawn gave him the finger without turning around. Lassiter laughed and reloaded their guns and target sheets while Shawn looked around, suddenly tilting his head and squinting at a shooter far on the other side of the range. He didn't look very different than a lot of the other men Shawn had seen around the area—big, neckbeard, dirty jeans, shirt with the sleeves ripped away to show off a crude Confederate flag on his bicep—but something was making him feel spectacularly creeped out, and he involuntarily took a step closer to Lassie, keeping the other shooter in his peripheral.

Lassiter evidently noticed that Shawn had seen something, and he stood closer to him while taking aim at the bulls-eye shape. “What's wrong?” he asked quietly.

“Stranger danger,” Shawn said. He glanced over again, and then he thought he understood why his initial quick glimpse had warned him to take a closer look: the other man's target sheet wasn't a series of concentric circles, like his and Lassie's were, it was an outline of a person. A person that needed an adult, because the shooter was concentrating all of his firepower on the shape's head and groin, nowhere else. Shawn shook his head and turned back toward Lassie. “Dude,” he said, very softly. “Some people have issues.”

“Yeah,” Lassiter agreed. “Cops see all kinds.” He nodded to the other side of the range, and Shawn saw a man and a woman with a couple of kids about nine or ten, who were watching raptly as the man lectured on the subject of what he called “natural free dinner” while the woman nodded and showed them crude drawings of a possum, a squirrel, and a rabbit. “Wouldn't be surprised if those kids didn't eat store-bought meat for the next ten years,” Lassiter said. “And squirrels are often harbingers of rabies and infestations of ticks and deer flies carrying Lyme disease and tularemia. At least they're not encouraging raccoon stew.”

“Why do the bunnies always get the raw end of the deal?” Shawn asked dispiritedly. Lassie gave him a pat on the back and then nudged him forward, where he tried to forget about horrifying hicks by being awesome and impressive.

.

On Saturday night, a college student called Kailey Nielsen stood outside a bar in downtown Santa Barbara, checking her phone for texts while she waited for Amberlyn and Hannah to finish paying for their drinks and meet her for their ride back to their apartment. The night was warm but cooling off as the sun went down, and the sidewalks were crammed; she knew every other guy—and some of the girls—were glancing at her legs as they went by, and she looked up in time to smile at a few of them. She'd just bought the new skirt and the heels, and after an entire week trying to force the birth of a term paper, she and her friends had really laid it out, whooping and dancing and exchanging long glances with some of the guys who had been more than willing to bring them drinks and to stand close, smelling like Axe and sweat and possibilities.

“Ohmygod,” Hannah said as she came out. “Kailey. Did you see Jordan? Unf,” she said enthusiastically, making Amberlyn smirk and roll her eyes. “If he calls me next weekend, I'm going to remove his dick and carry it with me in a little pouch for my own personal access. It'll have stars on it and will totally match my cell case.”

“I told her smilies,” Amberlyn said. “But will this bitch listen?”

“You're both wrong.” Kailey's car was in the middle of the parking lot, and she led the way. “If all it needs is a _little_ case, it's not worth the mess.” She grinned over her shoulder as the other two cracked up, and then she unlocked the car and flipped the radio on loud as everyone piled in and started singing and dancing in their seats.

Hannah was telling the other two about her previous boyfriend, who had evidently possessed a penis of purely poetic pulsing pleasure, when they arrived at the apartment and she noticed their driver holding her hand out for her gas money. “Kailey, you're a whore.”

“That's what your dad calls me,” she said reasonably. “And he's overdue. Pay up or I go see your mom.”

Amberlyn had extricated herself from the back seat, almost falling as she ducked back in for her purse. “I got it upstairs,” she said. “Your fuel funds, not Hannah's mom. Not yet, anyway.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hannah said, laughing and opening her car door. “Either of you two tit-weasels would be lucky to have my mom.”

“Hannah's mom has got it going on,” Amberlyn began singing, as all three headed for the door.

“Ugh, not again,” Hannah said, making a disgusted face at the front door, which was almost shut, but not latched. “Amber, you're a total cunt, we're going to get robbed.”

“What do we have that anyone would want to steal?” Amberlyn rolled her eyes as she pushed the door open, not seeing their designated driver reaching into her purse. “That's weird,” she called back. “Lights are out, but I can see the clock on the ster—” Her words were cut off when she screamed, and then her scream was cut off and they could hear muffled sounds of a struggle. 

Hannah didn't have time to jump back before there was a vice grip on her elbow, yanking her back against the outside wall. Her eyes were huge, her mouth open, and her breath almost screamed out of her. “Kailey!” she gasped, only just realizing that their new friend was holding a gun. 

A phone was thrust into her hands, the screen unlocked and 911 keyed into the dialer. She looked up again and saw Kailey holding a small radio and speaking into it rapidly, saying “armed home invasion” and “Detective O'Hara entering the premises and requesting backup”.

“Hello, do you have an emergency?” the tinny voice of a 911 operator came from the cell phone.

“Kailey, I—I—” Hannah stammered. “Amber—”

“Your address,” Juliet snapped at her, and then shoved her at the car. “Go sit on the side facing the street and stay on the line. I'm going to get her.”

.

Shawn wasn't _nearly_ ready to wake up at six o'clock Sunday morning, not even when his stupid phone starting ringing, not even when Lassie started nudging him, but when he heard him say “Juliet”, he was grabbing for the cell before he really knew where it was, ending up knocking the fucking thing out of Lassie's hand and onto the floor, where the battery compartment popped open. 

“Hey!” Shawn said.

“Well, that's going to voicemail,” Lassie said. He picked up his own cell phone and was trying to find Juliet's number in it when it lit up and trilled, displaying her name. He handed it to Shawn, who was frantically trying to shove the battery of his own phone back together. “Here, trade.”

“Jules!” Shawn barked, flopping down on the bedsheet while Lassie fit his phone together correctly. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said, at first sounding slightly surprised, and then going into her soothing tone. “I'm fine, everything's okay.”

“It's three o'clock in the morning,” Shawn said, his voice a little lower, but now more worried than panicked. “Did you—? The case?”

“We got them,” she said, and sighed deeply, very tired. “Is Carlton there? I got voicemail on yours?”

Shawn didn't know what to say for a moment, and he glanced at Lassie, who was watching him calmly. “Uh, yeah, he's right here,” he said slowly. “Did you want to talk to him?”

“Put her on speaker,” Lassiter said.

“I want to talk to you,” Juliet was saying. “I was just wondering, since you didn't pick up yours.”

“I dropped it and the battery fell out.”

“Oh. I'm sorry, Shawn, I'm just so exhausted—”

“It's okay,” he said, and then he pressed the speaker button. “Still there? I hit speaker.”

“Yes. Hi, Carlton.”

“Hello,” he said. “Are you all right? What can you tell us?”

She explained as much about her undercover assignment as she could, starting with the premise that she would be a student with the exact preferences—age range, hair color, body type—of a set of serial killers that were going after women in twos and threes that were attending colleges all along the California coast. Shawn remembered hearing about six students killed in San Francisco and could only look at Lassiter helplessly as she started to describe the previous night, when the two killers (who had turned out to be brothers, one of them a college professor), had hidden in the apartment of two women and abducted one of them as soon as she'd entered the house. 

“I approached them about going out because they both look very similar to fifth and sixth victims,” Juliet said. “They all could have been sisters. The other two undercovers were also out with students who shared certain physical aspects, and we were all on high alert—I haven't met or seen either of the other UCs, but I've been told that the FBI thought it extremely likely that the suspects would go after one of our groups.”

“Juliet,” Lassiter said, stopping her, and Shawn knew he'd seen the sick look on his face, because he felt sick enough. “We're very glad that you're all right. Are you out?”

“Yes, as of two hours ago,” she said, after a slight pause. “I've just finished my debriefing. The girl that was abducted was injured, but she'll recover. I wounded one of the suspects as well, but he'll also recover—enough for trial, anyway.”

“I can come home and see you now?” Shawn asked. 

“Yes, Shawn,” she said, and although her voice was worn and a little frayed, she also sounded relieved. “Please. I miss you.”

“As soon as I can,” he said, and stood up.

“Whoa,” Lassiter said, holding up a hand at him. “You're not going to run to Santa Barbara right this second.”

“I can get dressed—there's no way I'm going to go back to sleep now.”

“Yeah, okay.” Lassie held his hand out. “I'll hear about the rest of the case, if Juliet doesn't mind talking about it.”

“Sure.” Shawn punched the speaker button again before handing over the phone, not wanting to hear about what had gone down in order for Jules to go after two armed serial killers on her own. He pulled on his shorts and then went down to the basement to get the load of his clothes he'd stuck into the dryer before they'd gone to bed last night, and dressed in front of the furnace, lacking only socks. He hesitated, then checked the washer, found more of his clothes mixed in with some of Lassie's, and sighed, transferring the whole bundle to the dryer and starting it. He came back upstairs and into the bedroom, where Lassie was now standing, pacing a little, and listening. Shawn raised his eyebrows at him and Lassiter shook his head, indicating that he still didn't want to know.

Shawn turned around in a near-circle, feeling caged; he wanted to get out of this small house and into an even smaller plane—well, no, he didn't, but he wanted to go _home_ —but he didn't have a flight booked, almost all of his things were scattered all over the place, he had no idea where Siddy currently was... he was going to miss Lassie...

Lassiter held out the phone again. “She wants to say goodbye,” he said. “She needs to go home and get some sleep. I'll help you schedule your flight home after breakfast.”

“Okay.” Shawn took the phone. “Juliet, I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, and he could hear how quickly she was fading. “Let me know when to come pick you up.”

“I will,” he said. He wanted to add how glad he was that she was through with this, how incredibly relieved he was that she was all right, how proud of her he was that she'd apprehended both suspects _and_ saved a civilian's life, how balls-to-the-wall brave she was, how scared he'd been for her... but she knew all of it, and it would take too long when she sounded like she was nearly ready to drop on the spot. “Go to sleep,” he said. “But don't dream, because dreams dream of being you.” She chuckled, told him she loved him again, and then hung up. Shawn made a face at the phone as he handed it back to Lassie. “That made no sense,” he said.

“I'm sure she appreciates the sentiment,” Lassiter said, putting both hands behind his head as he lay back down on his pillow. “She sure speaks Spencer.”

“Say that five times fast,” Shawn challenged.

“No.”

Shawn didn't ask him why he'd used his last name, and he didn't point out that Lassie, too, should speak _him_ by now as well. “What's for breakfast?” he asked instead.

“What do you want?”

Lassiter was staring at the ceiling, not moving and not looking at him. Shawn realized why almost at once, and then he also knew why he'd called him Spencer again—distance. He was leaving and Lassie would be alone again. Shawn crawled back up the bed and stretched out next to him on his side, throwing one leg and one arm over him. He laid his head on Lassie's shoulder, and kissed him when he looked at him, surprised. 

“You,” Shawn said. “I'm not going anywhere yet.”

“You're not?”

“Well, I've got clothes in the dryer,” he said reasonably, and then he grinned. “Jules needs at least a few hours of quiet to rest and recuperate, and there will be planes later on today.” He hoisted himself up and over, leaning down to kiss Lassie and grind against him. “If you think I'd head off without a little more of _this_ ,” he said, and kissed him again, “I'm going to sing you the Wrong Song.”

“Don't you dare,” Lassiter warned, but he was starting to smile a little again.

After a delicious start to the day, and then breakfast, Shawn took a couple of laps around the house, gathering his things and periodically checking on the clothes in the dryer. He'd left Lassie with his computer and his credit card to get him pretty much any flights and connections home as were possible, reminding him that he'd be checking one suitcase and that one of his carry-ons was going to be a cat.

“Last chance to mark all of this territory as yours, buddy,” Shawn told Siddy, when he found him stretched out on top of the dining room table.

“Don't think I've forgotten about your promise to lint roll,” Lassie called. 

Shawn rolled his eyes. “I'll do it once he's in the carrier, otherwise he'll just get more hair everywhere.”

“You better.”

When he was emptying the shallow litter pan that had been in the bathroom, Shawn got an idea, and he went in search of either Post-Its or a pad of paper. He'd written and hidden two little notes, one underneath the bathroom cabinet that could only be seen whilst commanding the throne, one in the freezer tucked between a half-empty bag of pizza rolls and a spare can of pineapple juice, and he was poking around for a good spot for a third when he noticed Lassie watching him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Checking to see if there's any more of my stuff lying around.”

“Did you happen to misplace anything underneath the picture of my sister and her husband?”

“Well, I won't know until I look, will I?”

Lassiter shook his head, and then he indicated the computer screen. “Come look at this.” Shawn tucked the pad of paper he'd stolen from the desk in the spare bedroom in his back pocket and slid onto the sofa cushion next to him, laying his head on Lassie's arm. “You can go back tonight, departing at five-thirty, but you won't get back to Santa Barbara until one o'clock in the morning—that's with the time difference and two connections with layovers.” He paused, clicking another window to display another possible schedule. “Or you can depart tomorrow morning, at ten-thirty—you'd still have two connections to make, but there's hardly any layover, and with the time difference you could be back on the ground in California before dinner.”

Shawn made a face; the choice was obvious, but it kind of blew that Jules was already home in their apartment and he wouldn't be on his way back to her for another whole day. “That's seriously all that's available?” 

“All that will allow you to bring the stupid cat.” Lassie paused. “And no, I'm not mailing it to you.”

“But Garfield mailed Nermal to Abu Dhabi.”

“Fine, I'll mail your cat to Abu Dhabi.”

Shawn sighed. “Yeah, I guess the second one, as long as you don't mind me hanging around another day.”

“I don't mind.”

“Window seat, if possible, so Siddy doesn't bother too many people,” Shawn said, and he watched as Lassie booked the flight and entered the information from his card. “Should I call a cab to get there tomorrow?”

“No, I'll take you.”

“Won't you be at work?”

Lassiter shrugged. “I'm sure none of them will start bawling if I don't show up until after lunch. I'll stay late to catch up, if I need to.”

“Okay, cool.” Shawn shifted a little on Lassie's bony shoulder, getting a little more comfortable. Now that his course of action had stagnated, he started to feel sleepy again from having been up late getting deliciously screwed and then awakened so early. He closed his eyes and wrapped an arm around Lassie's middle. “You're cozy,” he said. “I think I'm gonna have a nap. Goodnight, John Boy.”

“Hang on, let me get the TV remote.”

Shawn was slightly surprised that Lassie was going to let him stay where he was instead of ordering him to finish cleaning up after the cat, or at least to get his feet off the end of the sofa, but he wasn't going to jinx it—he sat up a little while Lassie set the computer on the coffee table, got the remote, and then sat back on the couch and held an arm out. Shawn grinned and laid on him again, yawning and soon dozing off to the soothing, steady sound of a war movie.


	9. Frequent Flier Smiles

She wasn't going to do it. She had been perfectly clear that she thought it was a stupid idea, that no one ever actually did things like that in the real world—only in movies. But if there was one person in her life out of everyone she had ever met who wanted his life to be a movie—especially the cheesy sort in which people ran toward each other slowly in airports with their arms spread wide as the music swelled—who was it? That's right. It was her boyfriend. Her goofy, childish, fantasy-ridden, ridiculous, hilarious, nonsensical, intelligent attractive clever well-loved boyfriend. 

And when she saw him toward the end of a crowd that had recently disembarked a plane coming in from Denver, almost skipping and holding up the carrier so that Siddy The Kitty could see where they were going, looking exhausted but pleased, she forgot all of her previous firm disapproval and she ran to him with her arms out—but not slowly. He saw her and his face lit up; he set the carrier and his backpack down just as she reached him, and when she landed in his arms she wrapped her own around him and held him tight, almost as tightly as he was squeezing her.

“I'd like to thank the Academy,” Shawn said in her ear. “Best reunion film of the decade, two thumbs up and the hearts of audiences everywhere. Can't you hear them applauding?”

Juliet laughed with her face in his neck. “No.”

“Hmm, that's because they're not. Rude. We were clearly apart and now we're back together, the love that knows no bounds. We're supposed to get a standing o.”

“I'll give you one later,” she promised, finally letting him go enough to look at his face. “I missed you so much.”

“I'd miss me too,” he said. “I'm special—one of a kind, mint condition. I even come with bubble gum.”

Juliet honked his nose, then bent down to pick up their cat's carrier. “Let's get your stuff and get out of here.” As they turned toward the luggage carousels, she noticed two other spectacular reunion scenes, and she nudged him. “See, not exactly the box-office hit of the summer.”

“Remakes,” he said. “Purists will insist on our version for years to come.”

“How's our sequel?”

“Dunno yet,” he said, tilting his head and glancing at her. “It's still in the studio. I hear the official porn is set for release, though.”

Juliet snorted and then pointed. “There's your bag.”

“That was going to be the opening line,” he said. “But it kind of all fell to grunts after that.” He grinned and then darted forward for his suitcase while she stuck a finger into Siddy's carrier for him to sniff, smiling.

Outside, Shawn threw his arms wide next to her car while she opened the trunk for his things. “It's not humid!” he nearly crowed. “The air! It's not _on me_. I can deal with lots of stuff sticking to my skin, you know, but when it feels like my _skin_ is sticking to me, that's just enough!”

“It's already bad there?” she asked, setting Siddy carefully on the floor of the backseat.

“Not too bad, but enough to notice.” He made a face. “It started making my hair do things I never approved of and I spent almost the entire week inside the house.”

“What did you do?” she asked, curious. Their very few, very short phone conversations hadn't really let them speak at all. “I noticed after I dropped you off that you didn't take any of your video games.”

He shrugged as they got into the car. “Played with Siddy, watched TV, reorganized a closet, the pantry, two bookshelves—and by, 'reorganize', I clearly mean, 'took everything off and put them back so that the first words in the titles made new sentences'—and went to the sports museum twice. I even did the _dishes_. I kept busy, you know, whenever I could manage to pry myself out of the massive divot in the bed when Lassie was through with me.” He licked his lips, clearly remembering something, and his expression was a little wistful. “To tell you the truth, I was a little worried about how it might go with just me and him.” He raised his hands a little, palms up. “But it was _fine_. It was good. More than good.” He rolled one of his sleeves up a little, where she saw several fading bruises in a pattern on his forearm. “Look. I got 'em all over. That was a 'set up a safeword' situation, and I almost had to use it.”

“Wow,” she said, impressed. “Whose idea was that?”

“Mine. Well, I could tell he kind of wanted to, but wouldn't ask or just go for it, so I kind of prodded. And then I _really_ got it.” He paused, looking contemplative. “He was really mad about something—I mean _really_ , so I tried to help dial it down. He wouldn't tell me what it was about, though, not even the next morning.”

“And you don't know why? Couldn't tell anything?”

“No, he just kept saying that they were trying his patience, but it must have been more than that.” He frowned a little. “You know how he is about police work, how it's the most important thing in the universe and he takes it really seriously and does it even in his off time. But there? Jules, I think he's starting to not care anymore. Worst decision to transfer ever, even worse than when Vicky moved to Chicago and broke off her engagement to Danny and DJ, Stephanie, and Michelle didn't have a mommy figure again.”

Juliet was concerned, having spent a year as Carlton's partner and knowing better than Shawn how important the job was to him and how unlike him that sounded. “How bad is it for him, do you think?”

“Not splendid,” he said. “He was all mad Thursday night, then he took the day off Friday—partly because he was still so mad at some of the other cops and partly because he was all guilty about getting so rough with me, so he made me awesome breakfast and we went to the firing range, where I learned that if you don't hold your gun exactly right Lassie gets twitchy, and he learned that I can hit the bulls-eye while crossing my eyes and pretending to pick my nose at him, also that bunnies in Georgia are no safer than bunnies in California—” He paused, realizing he was way off his original line, and thought back a moment to return to it. “And then,” he went on, “Lassie didn't go into work this morning, either. He said he'd go after lunch, and that he wanted to take me to the airport—where I didn't even get a goodbye Frenching in the car, the withholding jerk—but he also just... didn't care if they wanted him to be there or not. I mean, back here, if no one cared, he'd be at work anyway, if he even noticed what everyone else was saying. There...” he trailed off and shrugged again. “If they wanted him this morning, they could take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut, and it wasn't just because he wanted to take me to the airport. And I'm pretty sure _that_ wasn't just because he felt bad about hurting me; he's just... I don't know, alone, and not happy.”

They had to stop behind a line of traffic at a red light, and Juliet took Shawn's arm to examine the bruises again, which she recognized as finger marks. “Did he really hurt you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Yeah. But I'm okay now, and like I said, I didn't need to tap out. It was close, I was starting to think that I couldn't hold on much longer, but then he came and backed off and held me all cuddly.”

Juliet let him have his arm back when the car behind them beeped, and she hit the accelerator to keep up with traffic. “I had a meeting with Chief Vick today,” she said. “Because of my quick reactions and fast apprehending of the two serial killers, risking my safety saving that student, I'm getting a four-week paid leave to recuperate, so that when I come back as a detective, I'll be refreshed and ready to take on some new cases. I need to go in tomorrow for some more paperwork, but starting Wednesday, I'm off for four weeks.”

“Wow. Want to go to Disneyland?”

She smiled. “Sure.”

“Really?”

“Sure, if you want.”

“You won't feel creepy going there without a kid?”

“I'd be going with you,” she reminded him, and laughed when he put on his fake offended face. “We could go anywhere,” she said. “Paris.”

He shook his head. “Cliché. That's French for 'lame'.”

“New York?”

“Maybe, though I have the feeling you'd end up fishing me out of the Hudson River.”

“Hawaii?”

“Also cliché.”

“Hmm.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I wonder if—”

“Probably not,” Shawn said. “Though Siddy's going to be mad.”

“What? Why?”

He'd been gazing out of the window again, and now he looked at her. “I don't want to leave him alone for even longer than I was just gone for, and he hates airplanes. We should probably wait a few days or a week, though—give both of them a chance to settle.” He tilted his head a little. “Gus is still on routes, you could spend at week at the Psych office with me, see if we can pick up a few small cases.”

“Shawn, I don't—”

He raised his eyebrows. “You weren't going to suggest going to see Lassie, both of us, for a few weeks?”

She smiled and shook her head a little. “Yes, of course I was.” She paused. “You're right—Siddy won't like flying again, and I don't even know if Carlton would mind us coming so soon after you were just there.”

“Probably not,” he said again. “I'd still wait a few days, and you should be the one to ask, just in case he _is_ sick of me, but I bet with the state of how he feels about work right now, and how he actually seemed a little bummed that I was leaving, he'd be fine with seeing both of us.” He suddenly looked at her sharply. “Just, for the love of god, don't make fun of his food, trust me.”

Juliet snorted. “Got tired of Brussels sprouts?”

“You know, by Thursday, I would have probably given those sprouts more than just a cursory glance and a comparison between their smell and three-day-old salad socks. He got spiteful, Jules, you don't even know. He knew I didn't want to leave to get my own food, so he was all, 'Oh I don't mind making you food', and then apparently the kitchen turned into fifth-grade science experiment corner. I'm pretty sure he tried to feed me something that consisted of tuna, instant potato flakes, onion soup mix, ketchup, and half a jar of mayo.” Shawn shook his head, looking baffled. “It was like Freckle Juice meets Revenge of Eating Your Words and Fried Worms. I thought he was supposed to be all mature.”

“You mean you thought you could be a smart ass little shit and still be safe?” she asked sweetly. “I'm proud of Carlton—sounds like he's finally picking up on how to deal with you.”

“Oh, he can deal with me just about any way he wants, provided no one tries to feed me peanut butter beef popcorn.” He made a face. “That shit's going on my no-no list, or I get a safeword for dinner.”

Juliet waited until Friday, her third full day of leave (and her third full day of Shawn, sex, Siddy, sandwiches, sleeping late, and other various things that began with S, debatably including the Psych office), before calling Carlton to propose the idea of coming to visit him so soon after he'd spent an entire week with Shawn. She'd thought he was probably right, that Carlton would be pleased at the idea of seeing them, of seeing her, but in case Shawn had left out something he'd said or done that had annoyed him—she'd noticed how quickly he'd suggested they wait at least a few days or even a week to call him—she followed the advice, and then she wasn't in the least surprised at how glad he sounded when he answered his phone. 

“For how long?” he asked, sounding surprised himself.

“A couple of weeks, maybe?” she said. “I'm off for the next three-and-a-half, and we know you just had Shawn all in your space, but for however long you'd like to have us, we would both love to come see you.”

“Whenever you want to come,” he said at once. “I'm not going anywhere.”

They planned for Juliet and Shawn to arrive on Monday and stay for two weeks, though no one made a big deal out of the fact that no return tickets to Santa Barbara were purchased yet. Shawn called Carlton on Saturday to announce that he was prepared to take full advantage of his second helping of his favorite Sass Master Lassiter, and that he was bringing not one, but two kinds of pussy along. Carlton sighed resignedly and confirmed that he'd already thrown away the cheap litter pan Shawn had bought for Siddy, and Shawn spent several minutes comparing him to the parents in _A Clockwork Orange_ who had gotten rid of the protagonist's snake and moved in a stranger the _second_ he'd gone away to prison for being a psycho. Juliet gently took the phone from him and pointed to the reception area of the Psych office, which contained a rather uncertain eavesdropping client, and Shawn bounced up to see if he could earn the price of his airfare in twenty-four hours or less.

When they arrived in Macon and she saw Carlton waiting for them, a closed expression on his face as he stood patiently among others looking for their friends and family, she wondered for just a second if they were making a mistake, coming back this soon. But then he saw them and his face lit up, a real smile instantly changing him from an 'I don't want to be here' stance to ' _There_ you are!'

“Sequel,” Shawn said, and nudged her. She glanced at him, saw his eyes flick toward Carlton, and she grinned before kissing the corner of his mouth and then trotting over to Carlton, who didn't hesitate before opening his arms and enfolding her. Shawn went for their luggage, smiling to himself, and she could hear him pointing out to Siddy that somewhere, a live studio audience was welling up without the buzzing APPLAUSE sign.

“I missed you,” Juliet said, her hands locked around her wrists, which were currently locked around Carlton's waist.

“Same here,” he said softly. She saw his head dip forward, just slightly, and then he straightened up and let her go, realizing that the airport wasn't the best place for a kiss. She let him go as well and they met Shawn by the carousels.

“Carlytown,” Shawn said, grinning.

Carlton narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Larlton Cassiter?”

“No.”

“Carl Lass?”

“What, do you have a list?”

“What else was I supposed to do on the airplane?”

“Right.” Carlton rolled his eyes only slightly, and reached for Juliet's suitcase when she pointed it out to him. “Is that everything?”

“Yep,” she said. Shawn had his backpack and Siddy, and one of her two carry-ons contained what she hadn't been able to fit in her suitcase, so they'd only needed to check two.

“I guess I'll just stick with Lassie, then,” Shawn said as they headed for his car. “You know, to be honest, I'm surprised you ever let me call you that.”

“If I ever protested it, there wouldn't have been a force in existence to get you to ever stop,” Carlton pointed out.

Juliet noticed Shawn hesitate slightly as he slid the animal carrier onto the back seat. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, standing in the open back door and watching him.

Carlton shrugged and closed the trunk over the suitcases and almost all of the carry-ons. “I got used to it,” he said. “I don't really mind, now. I guess it's kind of... what, your nickname for me?”

Shawn nodded. “I like nicknames. Or, you know, special names, for important people.”

Carlton had gone to the driver's door, but now he stopped and glanced at Shawn. “You started calling me that almost as soon as we met,” he said slowly.

“Yeah,” Shawn said, and got into the car, slamming the door.

Carlton looked at Juliet, who had been watching. “He liked you almost as soon as you met,” she said. “You weren't as receptive—it's okay, we all know why, I'm just saying—so it was partly teasing, partly impudence, and partly flirtatious. Then it grew into _his_ name for you. He can't really think of you any other way now, kind of like how Gus is never 'Burton'—he doesn't like that anyway, but Gus once told me that it was Shawn who started calling him 'Gus' when they were kids—and he almost never calls me Juliet.”

“It's... affectionate, then?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Oh.” He seemed to think about that for a second, and then he opened his door and got in. Juliet continued smiling all the way to his house.


	10. Shawn Raises the Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be two chapters, but I couldn't find a good way to separate them, so here it is as one, though it's very long and lots of stuff happens. Including a lot of very uncool language, for which I apologize to anyone that is affected.

  
_I want to start a fight!_  
—P!nk, “[So What](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EH6atHxFCtE%20)”

  
Shawn wandered into the Macon Police Department mid-morning on Wednesday; he'd been bored enough that Juliet had basically kicked him out of Lassiter's house with the explicit orders to “go find someone else to bother”, so, here he was, Lassie-hunting. It wasn't that there was nothing else to check out in the boring town, or nowhere else to go, but Jules had been entirely too content to relax on Lassie's back deck with a book and some tanning oil, and Shawn couldn't abide having traveled across the freaking country only to be ignored by his girlfriend _and_ the guy they were boning. To be fair, Lassie wasn't at home because of that stupid job-thing... so Shawn had decided to drop by with a snack for him, partly because the assistant chief was often too busy to eat regularly during the day, and partly to, okay, snoop. He was in Stealth Mode, nonchalantly pretending to read a cork board of fliers and announcements while listening to snatches of conversation and periodically glancing around to see what he could see and report back to Jules on the State Of The Onion.

He was just considering re-naming his reconnaissance mission due to the lack of eye-watering layers of this particular station (although it was chock-full of vegetables, there was that) when two uniforms came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder importantly. He turned around, starting to flash his charming smile, and it rolled over and died when he saw the way they were looking at him. It didn't take a genius to figure out what they were thinking, and he would need to be careful here—being a smart ass or getting pissed off wouldn't help either him or Lassie.

“Can we help you, son?” one of them asked sarcastically. The other one was staring pointedly at his gelled hair, one lip slightly lifted.

“No thanks, I'm good,” he said lightly. “I'm just waiting for the assistant chief. He's expecting me.”

“I bet,” the other cop muttered.

Shawn squinted at him, but instead of bringing up the fact that this dude smelled like old sour cheese and had the bloodshot eyes and reddened nose of an accomplished gin drinker, he looked back at the first officer. “How about you direct me to Lassiter's office, please?”

“Not from around here, huh?” The cop made a show of looking Shawn up and down, not bothering to hide his unimpressed final opinion.

“Uh, no.” Wondering how that was relevant, and unsure how to proceed with their hostility, Shawn figured he should just answer their questions and get out of their sight as soon as he could. He hadn't liked what he'd heard about the general cop population from Lassie, and he knew from his dad and several others, including both Jules and Lassie, how cops could band together and run you off the plank if they decided they didn't like your face, which these two clearly didn't. “I'm from California.”

The two cops exchanged a look. “Oooh, la di dah,” the second one said. “Hank, he's from _California_.”

“Ain't Lassiter from _California_?” Hank asked mockingly. “They all come from out there, don't they? Practically minted in La-La Land, I hear.”

Again, it didn't take a psychic or a natural super-sleuth to discern the meaning here, and Shawn tried hard to remind himself that these assholes were just that, and that they didn't matter. He was still fucking annoyed, though; after the Prop 8 fiasco, it was more than douchey to act like California was a magical refuge for gays or something. He bit down on a breezy tirade about how he was from the Bubble Bum Company™ and looking for places to start up a new factory right here in town, and focused on Hank's first comment: Lassie.

These two were the sort that liked to bully and piss on others indirectly, by phrases that had other meanings and offhand comments that were threats; Shawn had encountered them before plenty of times, and they were usually put off their footing, some only temporarily and some enough to knock it off for a while, depending on how many there were and how cowardly they were, by directness. He could play that game and many others.

“Are you saying you think your assistant chief is gay?” he asked curiously. This would probably make them think _he_ was, but that was perfectly okay—he'd just spent a week being gay in Georgia, and this would get their focus off Lassie and onto him. 

As predicted, Hank and his friend looked momentarily startled, either by his forwardness or by the idea that he'd cracked their Konami code so quickly. He didn't expect a direct answer, and he wasn't surprised when he didn't get one. The one that wasn't Hank turned slightly away and scanned the open bullpen as if he'd just heard something that required all of his attention, looking like a prairie dog sniffing burnt hot dogs.

Hank recovered a little faster, although he also ignored the question. “You know Lassiter?” he asked, a little doubtfully.

“Sure,” Shawn said. “His _girlfriend_ is my roommate.” He held up the paper sack he'd gotten from the convenience store down the street. “She sent me with his lunch. Can you tell me where his office is, so I can give it to him and let you officers get back to duty?” In other words, stop being ass-baskets and go do your jobs.

Hank held his hand up. “Can't let you wander around the halls. Guess I can get 'im—what's your name?”

“Spencer.”

Not-Hank snorted at this, obviously assuming it was his first name, and some sort of pansy-ass name at that, but Shawn ignored him, knowing that just his last name would probably get Lassie to come out here, instead of some jerk-off going to his office and telling him “Shawn” was there—which might make Lassie think he was doing what he'd been intending to do, which was killing time and hanging out, neither of which actually required trips to the PD. Although these two holding him up was technically wasting a lot more department time than he would have.

“Fine, you wait here.” Hank gave him a measuring look and then headed down a hall.

Shawn looked at Not-Hank, who was still standing where he was, baby-sitting him. “So you live with Lassiter's girlfriend?” he asked doubtfully. 

“Yup.”

“Out in _California_?”

“Yup.” Which was lucky enough for them: if he lived here, this entire department would be seeing a lot more of him. It was getting harder to not go for his psychic fallback, but he knew it was less likely to wow people here—he wouldn't be surprised if they ended up chasing after him with torches. He saw movement down the hall and turned, unable to stop a look of relief when he realized it was Lassie, who was followed by Hank. 

Slightly confused and more than a little annoyed Lassie, who aimed a scowl at Not-Hank before addressing Shawn. “What are you doing here?”

He held out the bag. “Your girlfriend said you forgot your lunch this morning.”

“Okay,” Lassiter said after a couple of seconds. “Thanks.”

A younger cop came over with a folder. “Girlfriend?” he repeated, sounding amused. “We didn't know you had a piece, Lassiter. Is she hot?”

“My roommate is so hot she'd make you wet the front of your Underoos,” Shawn said.

The new cop snorted. “Like _you'd_ know what that was like.” He gave Shawn a contemptuous once-over. “You're probably used to wettin' your back end.”

Lassie turned and gave him a venomous look that Shawn was actually quite proud of. “ _Don't_ talk to him like that,” he snapped.

The young cop looked as if he was having trouble not laughing, and Shawn saw his eyes flick up to his spiky hair. “But... he's—come on—”

“He's important to my girlfriend,” Lassiter said. “Anything else, I don't give a shit about. You can shut it now or you can work the next three weekends' back shift.” This was met with almost complete silence, and despite having to dance around the truth in order to hollowly please this gaggle of rednecks, Shawn started to grin. He could still have fun here, maybe. Lassiter turned to him and tilted his head back down the hall slightly. “Follow me. I accidentally took her keys when I left and you can take them back to her.”

“Sure.” Shawn started to follow, and then he paused and glanced back at the cops. He managed to stop himself from blowing them a kiss, because that really would have been too much, even if the looks on their faces would have temporarily made it worth doing. “Kiss my grits,” he said instead, then quickened his step to catch up with Lassie, not tamping down on the new spring in his step.

Lassiter closed his office door behind him and pointed to one of the chairs, and Shawn obediently dropped into it. “Did she really send you?” he asked, leaning against the desk and glancing into the bag. “Oh. I guess that answers that.”

“Not as such, no, but she knew I was coming. Probably.” Shawn squinted thoughtfully as Lassie put the bag of candy bars aside. “What are grits?”

“Grits?” Lassie looked a little surprised, not having heard Shawn's awesome billet doux to his adoring fans. “Kind of like corn oatmeal. Why?”

“For breakfast?” Shawn was almost completely thrown out of both his sullenness at the cops' remarks to him and his self-awarded fifteen points for his amazing riposte. “That's almost as bad as all of those health cereals they tried aiming at kids. Mmm, Veggie-Os—when you add the carrot juice, it smells like meat. Part of this complete breakfast. The last part is the vomiting.”

Lassie shrugged. “I've learned to not expect much from people who voluntarily eat entrails. So—"

" _Entrails?!_

Lassie made a face. "Chitlins," he explained, "are pig intestines. They're inexplicably popular." He watched Shawn gag for a moment and then seemed to remember his previous train of thought. "So why are you here, really?”

“I was bored and Jules is cheating on us with the sun.” Shawn paused, and then tilted his head slightly toward the hallway. “So. They're always like that, huh?”

“Pretty much. It's useless to try to discipline them.” Lassie pressed his lips together hard. “I tried going to the chief about them on another matter, but he gave me the, 'boys will be boys,' and, 'they're just expressing their own opinions,' excuses.”

“I could go express myself,” Shawn offered.

“I somehow doubt that would help.”

“I wouldn't be trying to help.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “I actually have some work to do here,” he said. “Go back to the house.”

“But I'm bored,” Shawn whined. “Can I at least go buy some rainbow stickers and put them on everyone's bumpers?”

“I'd have to charge you with vandalism.”

Shawn pressed a hand to his chest. “I would just be expressing my opinion.”

“That's not the same thing at all, you're talking about someone's private property—”

Shawn held up the hand. “I'm not going to touch anyone's knockoff of the General Lee and cover up their NRA stickers with the gay cooties, promise.”

Lassie sighed. “Go home,” he said again. “If I can get out of here early enough, we'll all have dinner and drinks.”

“Am I going to need the drinks to get over the dinner?”

“Depends on how fast that cat of yours is.”

Shawn was torn between worry for Siddy's life and a pussy-eating joke. Gus always said you had three, four seconds tops, to reply with a comeback, but Shawn had been known for stretching it to five or six. Hours, if need be. He decided that he could pick which to go with when Lassie came back to the house, so he simply shrugged and stood up.

“Can you make the one that said something about my wet end work the weekend?” he asked. “The third shift route along the college bars? Puke patrol.”

“Not unless I want to authorize his overtime, which I don't.”

“Hmm. Well, can you at least wet my end later?”

That won him the edge of a smile, finally. “That could be arranged.”

“Good! I knew you wouldn't be tired of me yet. I keep coming back, like a Slinky.”

“Boomerang.” Lassie snorted. “I found your notes and I've been considering the suggestions.”

“Really? How many?”

“Four.” He paused. “Why, how many were there?”

Shawn shrugged again, trying to smother a smirk. “Four. Teen.”

“...you hid fourteen Post-Its around my house about doing you?”

“No, of course not, Lassie.” Shawn gave him his best and biggest grin. “Don't be the lone onion ring in the bottom of a box of fries. There were fifteen, and at least three of them were about doing you. I'm a creative genius, you know. I could work at the 3M S&M division.”

Lassiter pointed to the door, and Shawn used it. As he was sauntering toward the exit, he glanced around again, and this time he paid close attention to every cop that was milling around. When he got back outside, he was smiling again.

.

It took Carlton so long to get home from work that Juliet had to handcuff Shawn to the bed to keep him out of the kitchen, her hair, and her pants. The last one wasn't so much of an issue, or wouldn't have been if he hadn't suggested they 'give the neighbors a show', 'give Siddy a show', and, 'give the picture of Lauren and Mike a show'; all of these being rejected, he'd opened the vegetable crisper, looked over his shoulder at her, began, “You know, I once heard—” and it was cuff time.

When Carlton came in, Juliet was humming softly and finishing up a stir-fry. She smiled at his slightly confused expression. “Hello,” she said.

“Why,” he began conversationally, “in the name of sweet liberty is Shawn in the bedroom singing 'Duck Tales'?”

“Hmm,” she said, not mentioning that that had been what she'd been humming along to, nor the fact that he'd spent the previous half hour composing a masterpiece of a parody about Fuck Tales. “You should probably check on him. This will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” he said slowly.

Juliet wiped her hands on a dish towel, then leaned back so she could see down the hall as Carlton opened the bedroom door and observed Shawn, who was naked on the bed, on his back with his arms splayed out.

“Not _pony_ tails or _cotton_ tails, no, d—hi, Lassie. Did you know that life is like a hurricane?”

“I noticed,” Carlton said, and closed the door.

“Hey!” Shawn squawked as Carlton came back to the kitchen. “Not fair, Jules! You said I could get up when he got home!”

“That's not what I said,” she called, and grinned at Carlton, who leaned against the counter and picked up the drink she'd set out for him when he'd called her to say he was getting ready to leave the station.

“What'd you actually say?” he asked.

“I said you would let him up.”

“Did you say when?”

“Not explicitly.”

He nodded thoughtfully, and then set down the rocks glass, opened the freezer, and got out a box of Popsicles. He rooted for one, which came out with a yellow Post-It attached, and he stared at it for a moment before snorting, putting the box back, and heading down the hall. Juliet took some dishes to the table and set it, and then she snickered when she heard familiar yelps coming from the bedroom. The Posty that had been in the Popsicle box was on the counter, and she laughed again when she saw Shawn's handwriting: _I'M SWEET LICK ME UP & DOWN. OH YEAH._

They ate dinner quickly, Shawn shivering for the first five minutes as he recovered from his ice pop treatment, which had involved a blue raspberry Popsicle alternating getting run over his lips, shoved into his mouth, and slid over the head of his cock until it melted cold trickles over him. “If this is the thanks I get for helping you fire a stupid cop, maybe I'll... do it more often,” he said.

“That's not nearly as fun as it seems,” Carlton pointed out. “You never have to deal with paperwork and lawyers and all of that crap.”

“What lawyers?” Shawn looked at Juliet. “This guy was on Facebook in the middle of the bullpen, making smart ass updates about some of the cases and suspects.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That's pretty stupid.”

“I was on the other side of the room and I could see what he was doing,” he went on. “I texted Lassie about it and he pulled up the _ex_ -officer's profile and could see everything even without being friended—it was public! You got screenshots, right?”

“I printed everything I could find,” Carlton said, setting his silverware down. “Hard copies are worth more evidence. And yes, there will probably be lawyers involved, even though they won't get him his job back. Never minding the waste of department time and resources, he was blatantly leaking confidential case information. Either way, it's not like it was a party, Shawn.”

“Not my fault, though I'd be glad to make up for it anyway. As soon as _someone_ makes up for my balls being all sticky.” Shawn made a face—he hated to be gooey after the fact.

“Couldn't be helped.” Carlton shrugged and looked at Juliet. “Are you interested in going out for drinks, or would you rather stay in and see what else we can use to gum up his works?”

“Both,” Juliet said. “Both is good.”

“Okay,” Shawn said. “But I'm getting cleaned up before we go. Any takers?”

.

Juliet joined Shawn for a shower; unfortunately, the shower stall was too small to fit all three of them inside, so Lassiter pretended to shave while watching them soap each other and then fuck against the wall. He then had to wait while both of them went through a moisturizer and hair gel routine, biting back a question of whether or not they were pretty enough yet, knowing that one would get him Juliet's Thin Ice smile along with Shawn deliberately taking three times longer than he needed to just to be extra annoying, so he played patient while Shawn tweaked and twirled his hair and Juliet applied her makeup. 

It was the middle of the week, which made it probably safe enough to take them both to Austin's, a cop bar on the north side of town. If it had been a weekend, Lassiter wouldn't have dared bring Shawn there, especially after today—he'd shown up unexpectedly, flashed his smart ass mouth around, gotten one of their comrades fired (many of them weren't as stupid as they looked, and had made the connection of Gibbs getting told to shut his face for what he'd said and the sudden perusal of his Facebook page by the assistant chief; while they didn't know it was Shawn who had tipped him off, Lassiter had still noted how many of them had been glaring at him and whispering while Gibbs emptied his locker into a duffel bag), and Shawn was notoriously unpredictable when he'd been challenged. He might not care, he might give a half-assed attempt at a fight and then get bored or distracted, or he might throw every part of himself into a knock-down drag-out balls-to-the-wall battle to not be bested. Lassiter hadn't needed to ask why Shawn had immediately put it around that Juliet was his girlfriend, and while that was strange enough to put aside for the moment, unconsidered, he was kind of grateful—he knew what they thought about him, what a few of them said, just because he was the only officer in the entire department who knew how to dress properly and clean himself. It wouldn't be a bad thing to be seen out with a staggeringly beautiful and young woman who sat delightfully too close to him in a booth, or possibly perched in his lap if they sat at the bar. 

Back in the bedroom, he and Shawn watched Juliet slip on a short dress and check her reflection in the long mirror over the closet door. “I assume you told Juliet what else happened at the station,” he said to Shawn.

“I told her everything,” Shawn said, tilting his head slightly so that he could admire her legs. “Was that not good?”

“No, I was just... wondering what the story is going to be if we run into anyone I see regularly.”

Shawn shrugged. “I thought the one I already told was fine.”

“I'm Carlton's girlfriend and you're my gay roommate?” Juliet asked, her eyebrows raised a little. 

“Sure, it'll be like that 90s movie. What was it called?” Shawn put a finger to his forehead, something he only did while around them now when he was being sarcastic. “Oh, yeah. Every one of them.”

Juliet looked into the suitcase he was rummaging through, and she pointed to a light green shirt with a ringed collar and short sleeves. “Wear that.”

“Are you saying my Apple Jacks shirt is gay?”

“A little,” she said. “Like you.”

Shawn gasped, taking a step/fall back and landing against Lassiter, who almost fell back a step himself. “Not true,” Shawn said, and looked up at Lassiter, grinning, while one hand squeezed his crotch. “I'm a lot gay. A lot.”

Lassiter snorted. “You don't say.”

“Hardy har,” Shawn said. “You're just a big, clueless _bunny_. You didn't even realize until I served at Fort Dix.”

“I'm not a bunny!” Lassiter snapped, and then he caught Juliet's eye, her smirk, and he sighed. He honestly didn't even know how he got into these conversations when they were around. 

“Yes, you are,” Shawn said, and then turned to press his entire body, clad in only his boxers, against Lassiter's, attaching his lips to his throat. “You teased me earlier,” he said, slightly muffled. “You didn't even let me come. That was rude. I'm going to call you Bunny for the rest of the night.”

“You do and I'll handcuff you in the basement and leave you there until morning.”

“What if I do... this?” Shawn sank down to his knees and pressed his face into the growing bulge he'd created.

Lassiter reached down and gently cupped his face in one hand, waiting for Shawn to look up at him. When he did, starting a mischievous grin, Lassiter darted out his other hand and vigorously rubbed all over the top of Shawn's head, thoroughly messing up his perfectly sculpted hair. Shawn jerked back and yelped, falling onto his elbows, and Juliet burst out laughing. 

Shawn bounced to his feet. “You're going to pay for that,” he promised. “You can fuck me, you can cuff me, or spank me, or drip candle wax on me, or drop the whole candle on me on like _some_ people—”

“That was one time!” Juliet protested. 

“But you must never, ever touch my hair when I just get done doing it!” He added a small shriek as Lassiter aimed a finger at his head again, and he quickly went back into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Lassiter looked at Juliet. “You dropped a candle on him?”

She winced. “All we had at the time were small ones in glass jars, and he said to try it anyway. I was trying to pour carefully, but my finger slipped on the hot side of the glass and it fell. The wax kind of splashed everywhere, and we haven't really played with candles since—he's afraid of getting burned again, and while I wouldn't mind trying again, he's afraid of burning me.”

“Hmm,” Lassiter said. “I have a steady hand.”

Juliet smiled. “Yes. You do.”

.

Shawn sat at the bar while he waited for their next round to be prepared—a martini for Jules, JD rocks for Lassie, and a beer for himself (he'd wanted a _Psychdriver_ , but knew it wouldn't at all help him attempt to stay on his best behavior in what was clearly a cop bar)—and he watched Jules and Lassie in a large booth against the back wall. From this angle, he could see his hand high on the inside of her thigh (good gravy, but that was a short dress—one of Shawn's favorites on her), and he grinned while gently blowing across the top of his nearly-empty beer and making the foghorn sound. (He didn't know yet how to make the Leghorn sound.) It was taking forever for the bartender to mix Juliet's drink, and Shawn was in the middle of trying to figure out how to toot the Jeopardy theme when he noticed the two guys a few stools down: they were obviously cops in civvies, and when one of them turned toward Shawn, he recognized him from the station earlier—Hank.

“Hey, California,” he called. “Are you practicing?”

Shawn first thought of a video Gus had shown him on Youtube of some people playing songs by using glasses filled with various levels of water, and he briefly wondered how a chorus of bottle-blowers would sound, and then he understood the implication. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, man. I feel so bad for you.”

“What?”

“You think the 'blow' part is literal?” Shawn shook his head slowly. “Sad. Of course, that kind of makes sense, I can see why no women would ever want to show you otherwise.”

“Why don't you shut that cock-sucking mouth of yours?” Hank invited. “Or you can get over here and get some real practice.”

Shawn squinted at him. “If you're trying to spread hillbilly, I don't think that's how it works.”

Hank looked at his friend in amazement. “Motherfucker.” His friend had a disgusted look on his face, and he nodded in agreement.

“If you want,” Shawn said, “but we'll have to ask her. She might still be traumatized from your father squirting the best part of you all over her leg.”

Shawn saw Jules coming out of the corner of his eye; Lassie was still in the booth, watching, so Shawn was sure he'd also realized that a few douchewads were attempting to live up to their names. Juliet ignored them and leaned an elbow on the bar, her back to them while she raised her eyebrows at Shawn. He shrugged and upended his beer bottle, finishing it off. The two cops were muttering to each other, and when they said a certain word starting with F a little too loudly, Juliet turned toward them.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice low and calm. “Is there a problem here?”

“What?” Hank said, seeming to be confused to be addressed by her in her cop voice. His eyes flicked up and down her front, and although he licked his lips quickly, he glanced at his friend uncertainly. Shawn snorted, hoping they would start something more so that Jules could really go to work on them—they'd probably piss themselves at the idea of a woman, a beautiful woman in a dress, being a detective who could kick them in the ass without them ever leaving their seats.

“It's no matter, sweetheart,” the other cop said. 

“That's right,” Hank said. “Hey, can I buy you a drink, since you came all the way over here?”

“I have a drink coming,” Juliet said, still giving them a measuring look. “And there's a matter at hand if you're harassing my roommate.”

Hank and the other gave her another up-and-down, and Shawn saw Hank's eyes flick toward Lassie, realizing that she was the one that had been mentioned earlier, and that if nothing else, she definitely wasn't fictional. “Ma'am, we're not harassing anyone,” he said. “He said something about my mother.”

Juliet looked at Shawn. “He brought up his mother first,” he said. “And blowjobs. Which is a really odd segue, when you think about it, but hey, _I_ don't judge.”

“I have a right to my opinion,” Other Not-Hank said, ignoring Juliet now. “First amendment, pole-smoker. It's just _my opinion_ that gobbling a man's crank is fucking disgusting.”

Shawn blinked. “It is?”

“Yeah.”

Juliet turned her back on the other cops again. “Go sit by Carlton,” she said softly. “I'll get our drinks.”

“Sure, in just a second.” Shawn had just seen the woman Other Not-Hank had come in with come out of the ladies'. He left his empty bottle on the counter and sauntered over to her as she joined two others at a table. He could still see Jules out of the corner of his eye; she had taken his empty stool and was staring down the turd dumplings that had started shit. Which was fine with Shawn, especially after he'd had a few already and knew Jules (and Lassie, him too) would have his back. He crouched down at the edge of the table, and all three women immediately looked at him, slightly suspicious. “Hi,” he said. “I'm Shawn. I was just talking to Hank and his friend over there.” He tilted his head toward the bar, but didn't look, keeping the blonde's gaze. “You're his girlfriend, right?”

“Not Hank's,” she said. “I'm here with Tom. Why?”

“Yeah, Tom. Well, he just told me something interesting that I thought you should know, since you guys haven't slept together yet.”

Now she looked more suspicious, but Shawn could tell that it wasn't directed toward him. “What?”

He leaned a little closer, and so did she and her friends. “He said that he thinks blowjobs are disgusting,” he said. “So... you know, you probably shouldn't try to pressure him into one. Even if he asks—he's probably just trying to fit in with his friends, you know how men are.” He winked and saw all of the women relax, identifying him as gay and safe.

“He said that?”

He nodded seriously. “Absolutely. I know he's never brought it up, but it's just because he's shy, since he knows he's supposed to like it. But he really, really doesn't. He said he'd still love to lick you like a melting Sno-cone on a hot day, though.”

“Um. Thanks, I'll remember that.” The blonde girl glanced uncertainly at her friends, one of whom was trying to stifle the giggles and another who was giving Hank and Tom strange looks.

“He really wanted to tell you himself, but he didn't want you to laugh,” Shawn said. “He likes you a lot, even though you've only been together a couple of weeks.” He dropped his voice. “He thinks you might be the one. As long as you wouldn't pressure him about this other thing, you know.”

She brightened. “I wouldn't laugh. I like him a lot too. Don't worry, I know how to be discreet. I'm totally supportive of whatever—or whoever—people want to do as long as they're not hurting anyone else.”

“I know you are,” he said, and gave her a grin as he got up. He chanced a glance back at the bar, but both of the cops that had fired the first shots had their backs to him; Hank was watching Juliet's ass as she collected two glasses and a bottle from the bartender, and Tom was looking at a TV showing a NASCAR commercial.

“What did you just do?” Lassie asked as Shawn slid into the both across from him.

“They drew first blood,” Shawn said in his Stallone voice.

“You're not Rambo, bleeding, or funny.”

“Well that's just not true,” he scoffed. “Thanks Jules,” he added, taking his beer when she set it in front of him. He took a long pull and smacked his lips, feeling totally refreshed.

“Watch them,” Juliet said to Lassie, tilting her head toward the bar. “They may be trouble.”

Lassiter glared in their direction and took only a small sip from his glass; Shawn knew he would nurse it until they left, taking her completely seriously and not wanting to be even slightly impaired if he needed to... lay down the law. Shawn snickered at that, thinking that he couldn't wait until he laid some law later, and Lassie looked at him again. “What did you say to those women?” he asked again.

“Oh, them.” Shawn looked at Juliet, grinning. “The one that doesn't actually know what the First Amendment means? Which really is piss-poor for a cop, Lassie. Anyway, his name is Tom. That's his new girlfriend over there.” He looked at Lassie again. “Tom was very insistent that I be aware that he finds dick-sucking gross. I thought it was only fair to inform his lady that he felt that way.”

“Of course you did,” Lassiter said dryly. 

“Shawn,” Juliet said, halfway between a sigh and a groan. “You know there's no dealing with people who think like that.”

“I was helping,” he insisted. “I didn't ask for his opinions, he just shared. He wasn't even holding the Share Bear.”

“Juliet is right,” Lassiter said, still watching the bar. “It wouldn't kill you to keep your mouth shut sometimes.”

Shawn gave him an innocent look. “Is that what you want?” he asked. “Wow, so many revelations going on tonight.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe you should give me something to shut me up,” Shawn said, very quietly. He started to grin, and then he winced when Jules poked the sharp toe of her shoe into his shin.

Lassie sighed. “Let's go. None of us are going to enjoy ourselves here right now, and we can drink at home.” He reached forward and did a merry-go-round with their drinks, so that he had Shawn's half-finished beer, Juliet had his whiskey, and Shawn had her martini. “Last empty pays.”

“No fair, mine was already almost gone,” Shawn said indignantly. Juliet took a large gulp of the Jack Daniels, coughed, and grinned at him, and Shawn threw back most of the martini. He had the feeling Jules lost on purpose so that she would be the one to approach the bar again to pay, but as he was feeling distinctly squiffy now, he recognized the wisdom there.

Lassie walked out with him to the car, and he didn't even order him to sit up and put his seat belt on when he lay fully across the back seat. “Why are all of your cops mean?” Shawn asked. “It can't just be the South. Did they, like, all request to be transferred here? What even goes on that form? 'Officer Jerkpants requests to be transferred to Macon, to take it upon himself to cure the forsaken bacon'?”

Lassiter looked at him over his shoulder. “Bacon?”

“It rhymed. Ooh, I know: a quest to wrest the nest of the sausage fest.”

“Uh huh.”

Shawn sat up. “Lassie, you're spending entirely too much time with me,” he said seriously. “You haven't told me that I'm an idiot, in, like, a whole week. And you haven't told me to shut up for the brilliant things I say since I was here last time.”

“I told you to shut up ten minutes ago.”

“That one doesn't count—it wasn't for something I said to you. It's like you're Diane Keaton and you ended up with a baby instead of money, but now you're assimilated and you no longer duct tape the diapers on me.” He paused. “Which I am also _not_ into.”

“Fine. Shut up, Shawn, you're an idiot. Do you feel better now?”

“Yes.” Shawn leaned forward and laid his head on the side of the passenger seat. “ _Are_ you assimilated now? Am I too much up in your space?”

“No, you're fine.”

“Do you like me now?” Shawn persisted. “You used to hate me.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “No, I didn't. Why don't you write me a little letter with 'check yes or no' at the bottom, and see what you get.”

“Can there be a unicorn? I like unicorns.”

“I bet you do.”

“You don't? I don't know if we can be friends.”

Lassie shrugged. “I like horses.”

“And guns,” Shawn said. “You're a cowboy. Save a horse, ride me?”

“Shhh. Later.”

“Jules once did me for like a day and a half and said every time I made a sound I couldn't get off for half an hour. That's why it took a day and a half. It was awesome.”

Lassie snorted. “I'm not at all surprised that it took you that long to be quiet for thirty minutes.”

“ _You_ be quiet with some of the stuff she does.” Shawn considered that. “You can't even be quiet with some of the stuff I do. I do some good stuff.”

“I know.”

“I like it when you can't stay quiet,” he went on, his voice low. “Especially when I can tell you're trying to. You know how Jules sometimes screams? That's my goal in life. I'm going to make you scream.”

“I don't scream. No.” Lassie held up his hand as Shawn opened his mouth. “Not even for ice cream.”

“Aw, you knew I was going to say that.” A second later, he gasped. “You speak me!”

“What?”

“You sure speak Shawn Spencer.” Shawn paused. “YousurespeakShawnSpencer yousoorspeakShawPencer yousurespeeShaw—”

“Stop!” Lassiter gave him an exasperated look. “Sit back and put your seat belt on. Juliet should be back any second.”

“Kiss me!” Shawn demanded.

“Not here.”

“But it's dark in the whole parking lot.”

“I will at the house.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

Shawn decided that was good enough, and he settled against the back of the seat just as Juliet opened the passenger door and slid inside. “Sorry,” she said. “I had to stop at the restroom. Let's go.”

Shawn woke up in the big bed alone several hours later; it was dark in the bedroom except for the light coming from the bathroom, and thanks to the two Psychdrivers he'd downed when they'd gotten back from the bar, he wobbled a bit when he got up and headed that way. He closed his eyes as he stood in front of the toilet bowl, remembering both Lassie and Jules on their backs on the bed, Shawn himself trying to decide out loud if he wanted a hot dog or a taco ( _“You are thirty years old,” Lassie had said. Shawn gasped. “Taco it is!” he said, and fell to Juliet_ ), but unable to remember what had happened much after denying Lassie a blowjob on the grounds that he was mustard out and full from eating Jules. Had he fallen asleep? Obviously. Had they at least taken care of him, or left him to hang again? The sheer-nylons nerve. He assumed they were in the living room, and decided to go hunt them.

He stalked an empty hall, then swung around the corner and gave the empty living room his finger claws and dinosaur growl. Hmm. Probably the kitchen, then... no, that was deserted too. He peeked out of the living room window and saw both Lassie's car and the one Juliet had rented for them still there, and he didn't think they'd decided to go for a walk, at—what? Quarter to two in the morning. Weird. He went back to the bedroom to get his phone out of his jeans, and then saw the closed door at the end of the hall and frowned slightly—that was the tiny second bedroom that was almost never used. Maybe they were doing it in there for variety. Maybe Lassie was hooking Juliet up to a shower stall of green liquid to run electricity through her brain a la The Tommyknockers. 

Shawn was reaching for the door handle when he heard their voices, and he paused again, wondering why the door was closed—it wasn't like they needed privacy for sex. He slowly took his hand away from the door, deciding to listen for a moment, trying to tell himself they were probably planning his birthday party or something, but he was frowning again.

“No leads at all?” Juliet asked.

“Not officially—I have a couple of hunches I'm trying to look into.”

Ah, they were talking about a case. Shawn reached for the door handle again... and then he stopped again. Why would a case require a closed door in a room that was almost never used? The answer to that was obvious and confusing, especially considering that he had been asleep ten minutes ago, and if not for his bladder, wouldn't have even known that they were awake and talking police business. They could have been talking in the living room or the kitchen, but they weren't; they were in here, with the door closed. He wasn't supposed to know, and they'd been trying to make sure of that.

He almost threw the door open to demand to know what was going on, but then he remembered something his dad had told him once when he was a kid: his parents had been in their bedroom arguing in the sort of tones that were whispers trying not to be shouts, and Shawn had been crouched at the door, anxiously trying to figure out what was going on, because his mom only told him things were fine, and his dad only told him it was grown-up business, and then asked him who on the block had left the newspaper out on their front steps that day. Henry had suddenly yanked the door open and found Shawn with his ear against the doorjamb; he'd tried to look into the room, but only saw his mother quickly standing and putting her back to him, the way she was cupping her elbows in her palms, and the trash bin next to the bed full of crumpled tissues. 

_“Shawn,” his dad said, sighing and pulling the door closed. “Never listen at a keyhole, lest ye be vexed. Remember that.”_

_“There isn't a keyhole. And what does 'vexed' mean?”_

_“It means you might hear something that hurts you.”_

“You know,” Juliet was saying, her voice a little softer now. “Shawn could probably help with this—he knows how to really talk to people.”

“No,” Lassiter said, almost before she was finished talking. “You two aren't here very long, and I don't want him involved, because you know how he is.”

“Yes... he'd be involved anyway.”

“And that's about the last thing I want.”

“Because of how he investigates? You know his methods now.”

“No, partly because there's no way I'd get away with bringing in an out-of-state _psychic consultant_ to the case. There's almost zero tolerance here for people that claim they're magical—I wouldn't be surprised if he had half the town convinced that he was a demon." Lassiter sighed. “Strictly speaking, you're not involved either, and you never saw this.”

“It's awful. I guess I understand why you think it would be better if Shawn didn't know about it—I'm sure he'd think he could help, and like you said, we're just visiting here.” She paused again. “He doesn't like us keeping secrets from him, though. And I understand why.”

Shawn scowled at the door; now might be a perfect time to open it and demand some answers. This kind of really burned his ass, and it wasn't even his pants that were on fire.

“This isn't that kind of secret,” Lassiter said, after a moment. “You were my partner, you're still a detective, and you're also the only one I can talk to about any cases. I'm not planning to take you away and elope.”

“I know... but you know how he's actually been worried—this whole thing, between us—that he's going to get left out somehow.”

Shawn took a step away from the door in surprise. Had he really been that obvious? He hadn't said anything even close to that to either Jules or Lassie, only to Gus, who would never have passed along such lame junior high anxieties. Besides, they were past that, weren't they? He and Juliet were happy and secure, and Lassie liked being with both of them, not just her. That had been righteously proven when Shawn had come here alone.

“You two are the couple.” Lassiter's voice was quieter now, slightly musing, a little too casual, and Shawn thought he was probably doing that thing where he gave too much attention to a file, or a book, or whatever in the room wasn't the person he was trying not to look at. “If anyone gets 'left out', it's going to be me, and I think that's right.”

“Right?” Juliet repeated incredulously. “Carlton, I think we're all kind of making our own definition of right, here. Let's just not worry about it now, okay? We're having a good visit, we're all good with how things are, and no one's getting left out of anything.”

 _Except me, in the hall_ , Shawn thought. _I'm Anthony Michael Hall eating a Hall's on Halloween_. He was starting to get a headache from the alcohol, and he no longer felt like bursting in and having to get into anything or everything. He turned and quietly walked back to the bedroom, flopping down in the middle of the bed and burying his face in the cool pillows. One smelled like Juliet's shampoo and one smelled like Lassie's aftershave, and he breathed in both smells before sighing them out. Don't get mad (or sad), get even. Solve the case.

That was it: he would find out which case they'd been discussing, and he would at least look at it. If he could solve it before he and Jules went back to Santa Barbara, he was going to whap both of them with a rolled-up newspaper, and they were going to like it.


	11. The Fox & The Hellhound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains more of that uncool language, and some brief, though quite uncool, violence.

  
_M for murder, the best detective that your money can buy_  
_M for murder, ain't no copper, he's a private eye_  
_And he likes to hang 'em high when they've got no alibi_  
—Blue Öyster Cult, “[Dial M For Murder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nETsnIUV3bs)”

  
Carlton Lassiter _would_ have a locking briefcase that required both a key and a combination.

Shawn squared off against the waste-case, first trying to stare it down and then glaring when it wouldn't submit. The lock was easy enough: Shawn had known the key wouldn't be on the same ring as those for the house and car, but that it would probably within Lassie's reach at all times. He'd noticed how tiny and flat the keyhole was, so he lifted Lassie's wallet from last night's trousers on the bedroom floor while he'd been graciously helping Jules get Zestfully clean, flipped through it, removed the key from behind a coffee punch card with a specific bulge in it, slipped the wallet back, and regarded the briefcase, which was on the coffee table, with the door to the bedroom open so that he could pay attention to the sound of the shower (and the sounds coming from the shower). He had maybe ten minutes, fifteen tops.

It was just after seven-thirty, which would make it four-thirty in Santa Barbara. Well, something about desperate times. He got out his phone.

“No,” Gus answered and then hung up. Shawn looked at the screen indignantly and hit the button to redial. “No, Shawn! I swear to the sweet lips of Halle Berry—“

“Double date with Candy and Randy,” Shawn said. Silence. He smirked, satisfied. “That's right,” he said. “Those two were fucked up, that whole night was fucked up, you owe me, and I'm calling it in now.”

“After four years? And at four o'clock in the morning?”

“Like I would _ever_ forget about the twins who wanted to switch, whether we were there or not.” Shawn shuddered. “And it's seven-thirty here. I only got a few minutes.” He eyed his nemesis. “How do I open a Steelson briefcase? Not break—no one needs to know I'm getting into it.”

“You don't,” Gus said after a moment. “That's one of the best dual-lock cases on the market.”

“I have the key already, I just need to know how to get the number combo.”

“You pick the brain of the person who owns it—it's one of the best because the buyer sets it, not the manufacturer. They're custom-made.”

“Great.” Shawn sighed. “There's no way to override it?”

“Not unless you want to try to reset it, which would clear the original combination.”

Shawn groaned. “So I need to figure it out, or literally break it, neither of which I can probably do in the next five minutes.”

“Why are you even trying to break into a briefcase? Aren't you and Jules still in Georgia? Whose is it?”

“Uh... it's for a case.”

“You're working? What's the case?”

“I won't know until I can get to the file.” Shawn made a face. “Go back to sleep, buddy, I'll call you later. I got like two or three minutes to see if I can Oracle the combination here.”

“Shawn—“

He flipped his phone closed and studied the number combination again. There were four numbers that had all been set back to zero, probably something Lassiter did by reflex every time he closed it. So. Four digits. Most people used numbers that were easy to remember, ones that had significance, like birth dates or anniversaries. This wasn't the same case Lassie had carried back in Santa Barbara, so it wouldn't have anything to do with his wife. He was a cop, and actually a really good one, so he wouldn't use something obvious like his birth year or anything that was used for something else, like his social security number or the combination for his gun case. It would be a special number, something personal, but something that wasn't directly tied to him, like the years he'd graduated from high school, or college, or when he first made detective.

_You two and my little sister are the only people in the world that aren't complete shits._

Shawn tried both Lauren's birth year and the year she graduated high school and got nothing. Hmm. Something else that was special and personal for Lassie, but something any random person wouldn't be able to look up about him and guess. One of his all-time favorite guns was the Smith & Wesson 629, but that was three numbers, not four. Shawn tried 0629, but the lock didn't budge. He looked around the living room for more ideas, and after a moment he tilted his head at the section of books about the civil war. He smiled, remembering a hilarious face wig and a monocle. 

_The battle of Piper's Cove Kentucky in 1864 is special to me. It ended Confederator Quantrill's plot to assassinate Lincoln, and it involved my great-great-grandfather, Colonel Muscum. T. Lassiter._

Shawn smirked. Muscum. He spun the numbers to 1864, and was mildly surprised when he heard a small click. Apparently Gus was right—he'd just needed to pick the brain of the owner. He turned the key and the case popped open, and sure enough, there was a beige case file right on top. He listened for the shower—it was still running—and sat on the edge of the coffee table, opening it across his knees.

Five minutes later, the water turned off, and he quickly arranged the papers and pictures back into order, closed the folder, and slipped it back into the briefcase. He made sure to zero out the combination, and was just standing up with the key in hand when the bathroom door, which had been cracked, opened all of the way.

“Shawn?” Juliet called.

He glanced at the armchair, where Siddy was snoozing, and he quickly slid into the chair next to him and grabbed him up, rubbing his ears to prevent a nip or the Kitty Countenance of Killing. “Yeah?”

Jules came into the doorway, wrapped in a towel. “There you are. Can you start breakfast?”

“Yeah, sure. Pop-tarts and Sunny D, right?”

She made a face. “Can you start coffee and set the table so I can make something?”

“Now you're drifting at my speed.” Shawn stood up, Siddy still in his arms. “Come on buddy, kitties get served first.”

While he opened a can of food and poured it out, set up the coffee bean grinder, and arranged plates and silverware on the table (he wasn't sure what Jules had been planning to make, so he decided to be super thoughtful and set out the salad forks and big spaghetti spoons, just in case), he tried to think how he was going get Lassie's briefcase key back into his wallet before he left for work. Maybe if he accidentally squeezed a bottle of Hershey's syrup all over himself and Jules, Lassie would skip work again. It could happen. Too bad there weren't any sprinkles. That would work on him.

Okay, probably not—and that wouldn't have worked out for Shawn anyway, as he had some investigating to do today.

He decided to go with the basics—if he was caught, he could just say he needed to keep his skills up. While Juliet whipped eggs for omelets and Lassie cut up mushrooms and green peppers for the add-ins, Shawn lifted his wallet again with some sleight of hand and the misdirection of holding out his other arm and wondering aloud why his elbow felt bruisey. Jules reminded him that Lassie had messed up his hair and caused him to fall backwards, and Shawn theatrically gasped and then flounced to his chair, where he put the key back under the table while Lassie smirked at the vegetables. It was easy enough then to return the wallet to his back pocket with a well-timed and not at all fake butt slap, and when the food was done he shoveled his cheese and bacon-bit omelet into his face as quick as he could to avoid talking much. 

After Lassie left for work, Juliet tried to talk Shawn into sunbathing with her, but one whiff of the outside air decided that in a hurry. “It's gross out there,” he said. “I can _smell_ the humidity. And it doesn't even involve bathing. Why doesn't this house have a swimming pool?”

“You want to go swimming?” She considered that, and then nodded. “I'm sure we can find a pool. You can slide and splash around and I can still lay in the sun.”

He shrugged and then shook his head, wondering how he was going to be able to get out and wander around alone so that he could start locating victims to talk to. “Nah. I said this house—you know I don't like public pools. Children flop around in them like nearly-drowned incontinent pee-monsters.”

Juliet sighed. “I don't suppose you want to go look at any of the civil war memorials Carlton suggested we see.”

“I don't think even you do.”

She smiled. “Not really. Well, what do you want to do, then?”

He waved a hand toward the deck. “Go slow roast until you're deliciously tender on the inside. Gus gave me a list of things he wanted pictures of, like a scavenger hunt, and he promised me a prize if I find everything, also like a scavenger hunt. I bet I can kill lots of time looking around, and you can finish your book in peace.” He gave her a grin. “If I get naughty pics of you in your bikini I might bring you lunch.”

“Mmmm, no. First of all, you're the one that would do anything from attending an art film festival to cleaning our whole apartment for either a free lunch or naughty pictures. Secondly, if you want to look down my bikini top, you'll need to rub oil all over me—I can't do my back, you know.”

“ _Then_ do I get naughty pictures?” Dilemma. Oiled-up Jules, or the case? Her suntan oil smelled like coconuts and flowers, and her skin was so soft... but then the oil would be all over his hands, and she would want to let the sun caress her, not his dick. 

“Maybe,” she allowed, smiling again and pulling off her tank top to show off the fact that she'd already been wearing the bikini since she'd gotten out of the shower. “I'm sure I can think of some way to thank you,” she said. “Get the oil? It's in a sack next to my carry-on case. I'm going to get my water and things and I'll meet you outside.”

Half an hour later, Shawn finished washing gloopy suntan oil from between his fingers, hollered a goodbye to Juliet, and stepped out into the gloopy mid-morning humidity. It was going to be outright horrible in a few hours, but hopefully the people he was going to be looking for would be receptive enough to talk in some air-conditioning. It was six blocks to a 7-11, and he cranked the rental's AC to max as he pulled out onto the street, thinking that either a red or blue slushy wouldn't at all hurt the start of his investigation. He concentrated as he drove, remembering names and dates and assault reports and pictures.

He'd been more hurt than he'd wanted to admit, even to himself, that apparently there was something about _him_ , personally, that made both Lassie and Jules agree that he shouldn't even know about the case. Part of it was something about wanting to get involved even though he wasn't supposed to be, but part of it was something else. Having found and read through the case, he knew what that was, and while he understood now, it still sucked that they talked about it without him, and talked to each other _about_ him. He could have secrets too. And he also thought Jules had been right—he could help, and the assault victims would probably be a lot more willing to talk to him than to the asshole cops in this town. For one, he wasn't an asshole cop. And for two, all of the victims had been gay men, and it wouldn't be difficult at all for them to identify him as one of them. The information in the reports, particularly the witness statements, had been barely there or glossed over, and Shawn was almost positive that the officers assigned to the cases had either not decently interviewed the victims, or the victims had been too afraid to actually tell the cops what had happened to them. He would find out, and if he wasn't able to figure out who was behind it before he and Juliet were supposed to go home, he would at least have enough information for Lassie to continue the official investigation properly. He stopped in to the 7-11, poured himself a blue slushy, and while he was waiting for a corndog to warm up, he asked the clerk how to get to the Pierway apartment complex.

Damien Cole, the first victim, was twenty-three, average build and height, a huge Braves fan, and owned both hunting dogs from _The Fox & The Hound_. “Please tell me his name is Copper,” Shawn said, holding his hand out to a shy puppy.

“Actually,” Damien said, handing Shawn a glass of Coke and settling down on the sofa, “she's a she, and her name is Foxy. Man that had the pups said they're purebred—I got her papers and all—and they're free, but if you aim to name any of 'em Copper you ain't gettin' one.” He snorted and gestured to the big grey dog snoozing on the kitchen floor. “That one _is_ Chief, though—raised 'im from a pup since I was twelve.”

“Foxy,” Shawn said, grinning. “I love it.” He sipped his soda and set the glass on an end table. “So, what else can you tell me about the filthy conglomeration of ballsack sweat that attacked you? I'm sensing that the police report is missing information.”

Damien snorted. “I bet it is. Cops that came to the emergency room to get my statement didn't give a shit—they didn't even ask me if I knew who it was, or for any physical descriptions like scars or tats, nothin'. One of 'em was too busy messin' with his phone to look at me and the other one had tons of fun sayin' my name like _Dame_ -ien.”

“To procrastinate and sever,” Shawn said, and nodded. “You don't know who it was, then.”

“No. Never seen 'im before or since. No idea why he went after me in particular.” He gave Shawn a doubtful look. “Your psychic mojo tell you if I'm still in danger?”

Shawn only knew what he'd read in the reports, which wasn't much, so he couldn't make a guess at whether each of the victims would be thought to have been 'gotten', or whatever, and left alone after being attacked, or if they would be targeted again. He wanted to be as honest as he could with any of the victims that would talk to him, since they'd been treated so horribly not only by the attackers, but by the cops that were supposed to be protecting them, or at least going after the creep who assaulted them. “I don't know, man. The vision I had showed me people getting hurt in the past, but since it's happened five times—and that's only five that have been reported—it'll probably happen again. I'd be on the lookout, if I were you.”

“I have been.” Damien scowled. “Don't really go anywhere now, and not alone if I can help it.”

“I know it was two months ago, but can you tell me everything you remember about what the attacker looked and sounded like?”

“Sure.” Damien thought about it for a moment while Shawn patted his calf and the puppy decided he was okay enough to come over for a sniff and a pat. “He was a big dude,” Damien said at last. “White, buzzcut on top but grizzly face. Didn't see any tats or scars, no rings or a watch or anything.”

“Big as in tall, or—?”

“Yeah, tall, maybe two-seventy-five or so.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Umm... I dunno, it was dark. I guess jeans and a t-shirt, but I don't know what was on it.”

“Sneakers, boots?”

“Work boots, the brown kind with a steel toe.” Damien scowled. “Saw 'em up close and personal after he knocked me down and went to work on my ribs.”

Shawn winced in sympathy. “Were they new, or old? Clean, dirty, scuffy?”

“I'd say broke in plenty, and yeah, dirty.”

“And did he say anything to you, like, threats or name-calling, anything to suggest he knew you? Or did he just start swinging?”

“Mostly just started swinging—I barely knew anyone was following me until I got grabbed and spun around.” Damien thought about it again. “He didn't really threaten me, either, but he did call me a fag over and over. That was about all I heard other than me trying to call out for help, which I shoulda known better, and him gruntin' every time his fist or foot caught me.”

“Grunting,” Shawn repeated. “Like, out of shape grunting? Or because he was hitting you that hard?”

Damien shrugged. “I dunno. After I figured out I wasn't gettin' up until he decided he was done, I just put my hands over my head and tried to stay conscious.”

“What happened when he did stop?”

“Um... I dunno, I tried to get up and couldn't hardly breathe—felt like someone was stickin' me with knives in my chest—so I dug out my phone and called nine-one-one.”

“You had three broken ribs and a scratched lung?”

Damien nodded. “Ain't all the way healed up, neither. Doc says I need to be real careful this winter, make sure I don't get a bad cough. Don't hurt as much to take a deep breath, though.”

“Does it snow or anything here?”

“Nah, not really, but it gets cold. Where you from?”

“Southern California.”

“Wow.” Damien grinned. “Like to make my way there some day. You said you was just visiting here?”

“Yeah, I know a guy that used to live there that lives here now.” Shawn had been rubbing the puppy's ears, and she suddenly sneezed on his hand. “Ewwww,” he said, holding his hand as far away from himself as he could.

Damien laughed and pointed to a box of tissues that was on the end table. “Sorry, man.”

“S'okay.” Shawn cleaned his fingers and reached for his glass of Coke with his other hand. “The guy that attacked you—was there anything you noticed that made him stop, or did he just get tired and stop on his own?” Damien looked a little confused, so he elaborated. “Like, was there a car or another person coming and he got spooked, or some other noise, anything like that?”

“Don't think so,” Damien said after a moment. “I didn't hear no car, and I wasn't really listening to the sounds of the streets, yanno?” He paused. “Oh—I guess I thought he was talking to himself, maybe? I don't know what about, I didn't get no words, but I thought I heard 'im muttering something, but not _at_ me, know what I mean?” 

Shawn nodded. “If you saw him again, do you think you'd recognize him?”

“I don't know. It was dark, and I was mainly focused on trying to not get hit and kicked.”

“Anything else at all that you can remember?”

Damien shook his head. “That's it. Happened pretty fast.”

Shawn finished his Coke, set the glass back down, and gave Foxy the puppy one last pat. “Thanks,” he said. “I'm going to see if I can talk to anyone else, see if I can put together a better picture of who's attacking people.” He got out his wallet and removed a Psych business card, which he handed over. “Call me if you remember anything else.”

“You're Shawn Spencer, you said?”

“Yeah—my partner's back in Santa Barbara, working on some other stuff. I'm only going to be here another week or so, but I've been getting some serious vibes on this case, so I might be able to help.”

Damien smiled, though it looked a little bitter. “You know more'n the cops already, so maybe you can.”

“I'll try,” Shawn said seriously, and he would. Not just to show up Jules and Lassie, who thought he couldn't handle it, or that he would get in too deep, or that he shouldn't even try, but because the whole thing was just shitty, and this guy and the others didn't deserve being attacked and beaten (one of them so badly he was still in the hospital). They deserved someone actually giving a fuck and trying to figure out who was doing it, and to stop it from happening to anyone else. He turned to go, and then looked at the puppy. “What?”

Damien looked down at the puppy too, a slight frown on his face now. “What?”

Shawn knelt down and petted the tiny dog again, his head cocked as if he was listening. “That does sound delicious, but you can't do that anymore, okay? He's been wondering where it was.” He looked up and grinned. “You have a watch, given to you by your... father? Gold face, leather band. You love it, but it's been missing, and you thought you must have lost it or it was stolen when you were out. It's not anywhere in here, and you've turned the place upside down looking for it.”

Damien looked mystified, and glanced at the puppy again. “Yeah? You're tellin' me she knows where it went?”

Shawn rubbed behind one of her ears again, and she broke into a doggy-smile. “She's sorry,” he said. “She says it smelled good, and she just wanted a taste, and then when you were upset and couldn't find it, she didn't want to get in trouble. It's under the sofa. You want help pulling it out?”

“Uh... yeah, okay, let's check.” Damien sounded completely baffled now. Shawn helped lift one side of the sofa and Damien swiped out the watch Shawn had seen when he'd first invited him in (the angle had been just right to glimpse the gold as he first stood inside the small apartment) and he looked stunned, laying the slightly-chewed leather band over the faded tan line on his wrist. Shawn glanced at the TV as he carefully set the sofa back down, where there was a studio portrait of Damien and his family, and sure enough, the same watch was on the wrist of an older man. “Dude, that was amazing,” Damien said, and held out his hand. “Thanks a lot, man. Not just for the watch.”

Shawn grinned and shook with him. “No prob. I'll let you know if I get anything more from my investigations.”

As he was leaving the apartment complex, his phone chimed with a text from Juliet; he flipped it open to a picture of her bikini line and the text 'lunchtime?' “That woman has some _timing_ ,” he said to no one, and jumped back into the car to locate something cool for them to eat before snacking on each other.

The next night started off with great luck—he was able to find two of the assault victims within three hours at his new favorite watering hole, and although one rabbited away just about as soon as Shawn tried to talk to him about what had happened, the other was almost as forthcoming as Damien had been, especially after Shawn bought him a drink. Tommy Pritchard's story was almost exactly like Damien's, too, except that when he'd noticed his attacker muttering, he'd just assumed he'd been talking to someone else, not himself.

“Did you see or hear anyone else?” Shawn asked him.

Tommy shook his head. “No, but it was dark, and I didn't really get an opportunity to get a good look around.” He set his empty beer mug on the table they were sitting at and nodded to Shawn's half-empty glass, grinning. “I'll get the next round?”

“I'm good, thanks.” He was trying to investigate, not date, sheesh. “Dulls the senses,” he explained to Tommy's somewhat crestfallen face, and touched his forehead lightly. “Your accident report was almost nonexistent—I'm sensing that you were met with some animosity when you tried to talk to the police?”

“Uhh... if that means they were straight-up shitweasels, then yeah. They gave me snotty looks and one of them whispered something to the other, something like he didn't know why any of us were surprised, with the way we look, or something.” Tommy made a face. “As if they can talk, freakin' butt ugly, all of 'em, and trashy too. Nothing wrong with the way I look, right?”

Shawn thought his eyeliner was a bit much, but he didn't want to get off-topic. “Have you thought about taking it higher up?” he asked instead. “If the cops assigned to take your statement were being openly prejudiced or hostile toward you, you can file a complaint with the assistant chief, who's legally required to take you seriously.”

Tommy shrugged. “Nah. It's over, and I don't like dwelling in the past. I don't let it rule me, you know?”

“Sure.” Shawn finished his drink and set the glass back down. “Thanks for telling me what you could—I'll let you know if I find out anything more. Here's my card, in case you remember anything else.”

“Sweet.” Tommy scanned the Psych logo and both names quickly, and then he looked up and grinned again. “Can I call you for any other reason?”

“I'm seeing someone.”

“Double your pleasure, double your fun?”

Shawn snorted. _Already doing that, buddy_. “Thanks, but no. I gotta get back, actually.” 

He tipped the kid a salute and went up to the bar to pay for his drink, checking his phone for the time as he waited for his change. It was later than he'd thought—Lassie would surely be off work by now, and Jules would be wondering where he was. He made his exit quickly, and as the door swung closed behind him, he saw that the sun had gone down and the streetlights were beginning to come on, a few of them flickering like hesitant fireflies. For a Friday night, the bar had been nearly deserted, and the short alleyway was stone quiet.

He knew it was too late a second before it was, but then he went and spent that last second in realization, and, well. There was large, tall man leaning against the end of the building near the parking lot, and when Shawn tried to turn and go back into the bar, he was pretty sure he found the man who had been assaulting gay dudes on this end of town standing behind him. He certainly matched both Damien and Tommy's descriptions: huge, buzzed hair, neckbeard, smelling like he'd marinated in old rancid tobacco juice, and wearing a t-shirt that had the sleeves torn off, where massive, hairy arms bulked. He looked familiar—or was that the almost insane look of hate on his face?

Shawn took a single step back, knowing that trying to run was useless, and the giant holding something—was that a piece of pipe? _Fuckaduck!_ —took one forward, starting to smile. “Well,” he said, drawing it out. “Looka what came out of the homo hole. And it's faggot season.”

“Duck season,” Shawn said at once, his eyes on the pipe.

“What? What'd you say to me, fag?”

“Wabbit season?” Shawn cautiously took another half step back, and this time the ginormo didn't compensate by advancing again, although he did tighten his fingers around the end of his pipe. Clearly not a Loony Tunes fan and devoid a sense of humor, which didn't, in the least, bode well. Of course, the pictures of previous victims' injuries had already told that tale. If he could just stall, hopefully someone else would come outside and see them and call the police. “Look man,” he said, very slowly raising his hands a little. “You don't know me, and I don't know who you are. I've never said or done anything to you.”

“I know you,” the other man said, his lip curling in disgust. “You're an ass bandit.”

“Um... I'm sorry.” He wasn't, not in the least, but this seemed to be a good thing to say.

“You should be,” the other man growled. “I'm going to beat the living shit out of you.”

“Why?”

“Why?!”

“Yeah, why!” Shawn repeated, indignant. “I mean, there's really no call for this sort of behavior. Keep this up and teacher's going to take away your 'playing well with others' sticker. Then you're going to get a frowny face and miss recess.”

“What the holy fuck are you talking about?” The giant man seemed to realize he was being led into an argument and away from his main goal, and returned to his original litany. “You're a cocksucker!”

“Why's that a bad thing?”

The other man did take a step forward now, and Shawn took another one backwards, realizing he too was being moved, away from the bar door and toward the parking lot, toward the second man, but unable to think of anything else to do. “Your flaming fairy ass is too stupid to understand the way things are supposed to be? You like taking it up the ass, faggot?” 

“Well...” Either a yes or a no wasn't going to help him here, and while his brain tried to decide what he should say next, what might possibly deflect what was coming, his traitor mouth was already going. “I thought about leaving it down the ass, but they don't make Pampers in my size,” he said.

The giant of a man was much faster than he looked, and before Shawn could try to use his hands to protect his face, a fist that felt like iron crashed into his mouth and it exploded; his teeth cut into his cheek and he reeled backwards, feeling like he was going to choke on the throatful of blood he now had. He swung his arms around to try to keep his balance and the other man's left fist caught him on his right cheekbone, closing that eye. Then he saw the end of the pipe go up, and now he did manage to get both of his hands in front of his face while ducking his head. His left hand took the brunt of the hit and he screamed as what felt like his entire body turned into broken shards of pain. Two more hits, one on his forearm and one connecting with his ribs, and he fell on the ground, where he could do nothing but wait. He tried to put his hands over his head again but his left was twisted and shrieking, and he lost his breath after the pipe slammed down on his back. He tried to turn onto one side, so that his already-busted left arm would take the worst of anything that was still coming, instead of his spine, and to ease the pressure on his lungs, but it was too hard to move, too hard to breathe. He couldn't see any more, not with his forehead making friends with the asphalt, which felt cool compared to the blood pouring out of his mouth and nose.

He could still hear, though, and he could realize that the blows had stopped. Whispers, but he couldn't pick out words. Someone jostled his body and there was so much pain that his stomach locked, wanting to puke but his diaphragm hurt too much to allow it. A hand in his jeans pocket yanked out his phone, and he heard plastic being beaten against the ground, as if he would even be capable of using his phone right now. More muttering, and this time... yes, he could discern two different voices, or two different speech rhythms, at least—one was jerky and one was calm. His left eye wasn't so bad, and Shawn chanced trying to open it. Two blurry shapes, both standing near him, but not quite over him. One was still holding a pipe, the other... that one was the interesting one. He tried to make his vision focus and it just made him hurt. The man without the pipe was on the balls of his feet, both arms hanging loosely, his hands slightly open. Shawn recognized that stance.

“Seven minutes,” the second man said quietly. Shawn heard more sounds as he started to pass out at last—feet on asphalt, feet on gravel. A heavy door, music from the bar, voices. He was gone.


	12. Jules Picks Up Some Bad Vibrations

Carlton beat Shawn back to the house on Friday night, which was a little surprising, as it was already past dark; Juliet smiled at him when he came in and set down his briefcase, and then she resumed contemplating her phone while he slid his jacket off and sat down in the armchair. 

“That thing call you a bad name?” he asked.

She snorted a little. “No. I was just... I thought Shawn would be back by now, or that he would have called. He went to look at the Eartha Kitt memorial and get some pictures for Gus, and he said he'd call when he was all through, to see if he should get something for dinner.” The display on her phone said it was not quite nine o'clock. “I thought he definitely would have gotten back before you, but I haven't heard from him.” She looked at him questioningly. “Do you happen to know what time the Tubman Museum closes?”

“I think it's five o'clock on weekdays,” Carlton said, frowning a little when he saw Juliet's surprised look. “What time did he leave?”

“About four-thirty.” She looked down at her phone again, fully acknowledging now that something didn't feel right. “I texted him a couple of times about two hours ago, and he replied, but I haven't been in contact with him since. I'm going to call him.” She pressed a few keys and held the phone to her ear, then glanced at Carlton again almost at once. “It went right to voicemail. Shawn, where are you? Call me as soon as you get this.”

Carlton got his phone out and checked it. “He hasn't called or texted me. Do you want me to try?”

“Couldn't hurt.” She watched as he held the phone to his ear, and then shook his head and flipped it closed again.

“Also voicemail immediately. He might have run the battery down.” He took a closer look at her. “Or do you think there's something wrong?”

“I don't know,” she said slowly, frowning herself.

“What's your detective gut say?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. I guess... he's been a little weird ever since we went to that bar.”

“In what way? Do you think he's hiding something?”

That was the sort of thing Carlton's overzealous, slightly paranoid side _would_ come out with right away, and normally she would have taken it in stride, or laughed a little, or considered it very briefly when working a case with him, because he had so much more experience as a detective. But she couldn't do any of those things now, because either it was catching, or he was right—that's exactly what the little niggling voice in the back of her mind had been trying to say for the last two days. Shawn had been up to something, and now there was a small, heavy place in her stomach that was telling her that she needed to see him, to find him. Right now.

“It's probably nothing,” she said. “I bet you're right, that his phone's just dead—I didn't see it on the charger last night.”

Carlton was still watching her carefully. “You don't believe that. Your body language is screaming 'worried mother hen' right now.”

She gave him a look. “I'm not a hen, Carlton, but you just might be a cock.”

His face was a mixture of offended and amused. “Are you calling me a chicken?” he asked finally.

She shrugged, looking down at her phone again. “No, Shawn's the rooster.”

“He says he's a fox.” There was a short pause, and then Carlton got up from the chair, leaned against the arm of the sofa, and put a hand on her shoulder, rubbing gently. “Do you want to go look for him?” he asked. “I agree that it's odd that he would tell you he was going to go somewhere that was closing in half an hour, be this late getting back, and then prove incommunicado at both of our attempts to contact him.”

She was tempted, but she shook her head. “No... I'm sure it's nothing. Besides you know Shawn—if we left to go find him, he'd show up here five minutes later, and then he'd never let us hear the end of it. He probably found a go-kart track and got distracted.”

Carlton studied her for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if he believed her, and then he shrugged. “If you say so. I set my video recorder to catch a program about the military police presence during World War II, and I wouldn't mind watching it without having to listen to a lot of grade-school jokes about the Nazi penetration.”

Juliet managed a chuckle at that, and she agreed to watch the program with him after getting a glass of wine and securing the rest of that shoulder massage he'd started—she even convinced him to rub on some cooling gel she'd gotten at the drugstore for a very mild sunburn, one that would easily fade to a great tan once the warm edge was taken off. 

They watched in companionable silence for half an hour. Siddy came in from the kitchen and leaped up onto the sofa next to Juliet; she reached over to rub his ears, but when he tried getting onto Carlton's lap, he was unceremoniously tipped back onto the floor. He gave both of them a dirty look before jumping up onto the chair and settling down with his front paws tucked underneath him. Juliet glanced at Carlton, who had already complained about cat hair in his house twice since they'd arrived, but he was still absorbed in the TV, one hand rhythmically rubbing her shoulder. She tried to close her eyes and relax (he did have great hands, for various purposes), but she still felt tense and couldn't focus on anything. 

Halfway through the program there was a long commercial break, and while Carlton located the remote to fast-forward through it, Juliet reached for her phone again, deciding she'd waited long enough and would try Shawn's cell again. Her phone rang in her hand and she punched the answer button almost before realizing that it was an unfamiliar number.

“Hello,” she said, and _Shawn_ died on her lips when she recognized the quick but calm tones of the other voice: someone official. “Yes, this is she.” She listened, and didn't know until Carlton shook her shoulder that most of the reason she was feeling lightheaded was that she'd stopped breathing.

“Juliet, what is it?” he asked, but she couldn't speak, because there was too much _I knew it_ and _oh god_ and _he promised_ and _what has he stepped into this time_.

“I'll—we'll be right there,” she said into the phone, and disconnected. She looked at Carlton, who had shut the TV off and was looking at her. “That was the emergency room at Coliseum Northside. Shawn. _Shawn_.”

He stood up at once, and in just a few seconds her shoes were at her feet and her handbag was on the coffee table in front of her while he was thrusting his arms back into his jacket. She reached for her shoes but seemed to be moving too slowly, and she stopped to take one long breath to center herself into action. Better. She tied her sneakers quickly and stood up.

In the car, the front lights flashing and the siren going, Carlton sitting straight as a rod but his hands tight on the wheel, she said, “This can't be a coincidence.”

“Cops know that there are almost never real coincidences,” he said grimly. “Only chains of events. You didn't say what happened to him.”

Juliet shook her head. “He was assaulted outside of a gay bar called The Bulldog,” she said, and looked levelly at him when he jerked in his seat and glanced at her, shocked. “He was—“ she had to pause so that her voice wouldn't waver “—beaten, either with a length of pipe or a tire iron. They wouldn't say how badly. Shawn was unconscious when they picked him up, but he was able to give them my name and phone number after they got to the hospital. Carlton, that's... that's the bar where three of the victims in the case you showed me were attacked, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It is. And he's been there before—when he was here a couple of weeks ago, someone from the PD came over to my house to help with a case involving home burglaries and vandalism. I—he offered to go find something to do for awhile, so that no one would see him and ask questions. When I texted him to pick him up, he was there. He said he just randomly wandered in.” He tightened his lips as he blew a red light, cars pulling over to let them through a block ahead. “You're right. It's not a coincidence. It can't be, not with him. Fuck. _Fucking_ Spencer.” He slammed his fist into the center of the steering wheel and jumped the accelerator a little more. 

Juliet looked out of the window at the cars idling at curbs as they flew past, trying not to think of the case file Carlton had showed her—particularly of the photos of the victim that was still in the hospital, the one that was still in critical condition. When Carlton slammed on the brakes in front of the ER triage door and snapped, “Go!” at her, she didn't hesitate; she was out of the car before it actually stopped, and then she was inside and looking for her stupid, reckless, asinine, loved loved _loved_ boyfriend.


	13. What's Gonna Work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The descriptions of injuries and subsequent medical procedure are not 100% accurate. And boo on Lassie for being sexist.

Lassiter leaned against the wall in an emergency exam room, his arms folded tightly across his chest, watching silently as a radiologist slipped a set of films from a folder and snapped them into the lightbox on the opposite wall. “Looks like you've got two breaks, Mr. Spencer,” she said. “Your thumb was just dislocated, which is lucky.”

“Will I ever be able to flip the double bird again?” Shawn asked, looking woefully at his splinted left hand. He was sitting on a table, wearing just his shorts. He had several contusions on his face, both arms, his left side, and his back. His hand was the worst of it, though he was lucky to not have a broken arm, nose, rib, or tooth as well.

“I'm sure your orthopedist will re-set them as best as possible,” she said noncommittally, and then excused herself to check on films for another patient.

Shawn sighed. “Well, at least it wasn't my right hand,” he said after a moment. “I need that hand.”

Lassiter gave him a cool look. “Do you need your head? Because I'm starting to wonder.”

“Sure I do, the Headless Horseman job is already taken.” He looked over. “Are you taking my statement? Because if it's a uniform I'm going to just save my breath.”

“I'll get your official statement tomorrow.”

“How long are they going to keep Jules in admitting?”

“I don't know.”

Shawn closed the eye he could still operate. “Stop glaring at me.”

Lassiter didn't think he had been—looking sternly at him, sure, a little frowny, yes, but that was quite warranted. “Stop landing in the hospital,” he countered.

Shawn sighed. “Is she mad?”

When they'd been allowed into the exam room, Juliet had gone to him and tried to take his hand, just managing to stop before seeing the temporary splints on his fingers. She had cried, silently, at the state of his face, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder before a nurse had called to her to visit the admitting office for Shawn's information.

“She was very worried when you didn't come back earlier,” Lassiter said. “She had a hunch that something was wrong. Neither of us know exactly what's happened, of course, so I can't speak to her emotions regarding your adventures yet.”

“Gee, Lassie, I guess _you're_ not mad. It's not like I'm the one that got my ass handed to me, or anything.”

“Who went _looking_ for them, Shawn?” Lassiter narrowed his eyes, now fully aware that he was glaring. “Who even knew there was anything to look for, let alone where to look?”

Shawn opened his left eye and turned his head a little. “Good question,” he said. “Maybe it was the same secret squirrel that hid away his nuts and talked to some other guy's girlfriend about stuff he didn't meet the super elite privilege of knowing.”

Lassiter just watched him, trying to decide how to proceed. Shawn must have awakened and stood outside the door while he talked to Juliet about the case. Denial was out and there was only so much explanation he could offer. “It wasn't like that,” he said finally.

“I know what it was like, and you know I know,” Shawn said. There was a long pause, and then he sighed heavily, wincing and moving his right arm toward his left side. “I know why you didn't want me to know, okay? But that's not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“That you still could have told me. That you _should_ have.”

Lassiter held a hand out to him, silently indicating his injuries.

“Nope,” Shawn said. “Not an excuse—this happened even though you didn't want me knowing, and for all you know, it happened _because_ you didn't tell me, because I had to go stealth myself and investigate on my own.”

“No,” Lassiter said slowly. “You didn't. You are _all kinds_ of 'not official' here. You have no cause whatsoever to be looking into a police case.”

“Because the police are doing such a great job? Please, son. I got more information in two days than you have in two months.” Lassiter started to speak, and Shawn held up his unsplinted hand. “Lassie.”

“What?”

Shawn sighed again. “Truce,” he said. “I'm not mad you talked to Jules about a case without me, okay? Like I said, I get why you thought it'd be a bad idea for me to horn in on this one. Kind of personal, increased risk, blah blah, and we're only here for, like, another week or whatever. This is a fucked-up case because of the way your cops treat gay people, so I just wanted to help. I _have_ more information! So... stop being pissed that I got involved—it's not that bad, I'll definitely live—and I won't be pissed that you two are having secret conversations behind closed doors when you think I'm asleep.” He frowned. “And don't tell me again that it wasn't like that, because I heard it—almost all of it, I think. I know what it was like. I know you're not planning to steal her away from me or whatever, that it had to do with talking to another cop in confidence about a case. That's not what got me about it, okay?”

Lassiter wasn't sure what to think about that; he tried to compare his own feelings to what Shawn was saying, and he couldn't believe that he wasn't jealous. He would have been, but maybe that was the difference. And these two had been, well, sharing each other with other people since before he was part of their picture. However, talking to Juliet hadn't been sexual, it had just been... confiding in her. And... that was the difference, right there: sharing each other with others physically was miles away from having an emotional connection with someone else. Shawn had every reason to be irritated or jealous, so why had he lied and said he wasn't? “Your problem was actually _just_ that you wanted in because you could help?” Lassiter asked, skeptical.

“Yeah. And...” His eyes darted away and his lips pressed together a little before he continued. “And that I wouldn't have known if I didn't wake up and go looking for you guys when I couldn't find you. Just... don't do that. Don't make me wonder if there's other shit I don't know about.”

“There's not.”

“I had to specifically get you to trust me when we started this,” Shawn went on steadily. “It goes both ways.”

How in the name of sweet Lady Justice's garter belt was he having a conversation where Shawn Spencer was the one with the mature argument, chastising him for behaving without considering others? He wanted to retort to that on principle, but he bit it down. “You're right,” he said after a moment. “I apologize.”

Shawn's one eyebrow went up. “That fast? Wow. I totally thought I was going to have to fight you more.”

“You acknowledged that I had good reasons for not wanting you to know, so I don't need to reiterate them, especially since it all turned out to be moot.” Lassiter sighed and finally unlocked his arms, going to the chair near the exam table and perching at the edge of it. “Why don't you tell me what happened.” He frowned a little. “Starting with how you knew the victims' names and where to find them. I never said them aloud when talking to Juliet, I only showed her the... file.” He trailed off, voice flat, and gave Shawn an incredulous look. “You got your hands on it somehow, didn't you? For the love of—it was in my _locked_ briefcase! I have the only key, and I'm the only one that knows the combination. _You are not psychic_.”

“Um... true, but... I do know you?” Shawn at least had the grace to look sheepish as he explained how he'd figured out where the key was, how he'd gotten it out and back, and how he'd figured out what the number combination was. “Lassie, we've been through this,” he said, when Lassiter started rubbing at his forehead in exasperation. “A lot of it was luck, and just... putting the puzzle together. That's how I do. I believe in Crystal Light, because I believe in me.”

Lassiter waved a hand at him. “Fine. Go on—tell me what you did manage to find out.”

Shawn recounted his conversation yesterday with the first victim he'd been able to locate, but when he got to the events earlier that evening, he winced and gently touched his cheek with his unbandaged hand. “Um, Lassie, do you think you can ask a nurse for an ice pack or something? The meds they gave me when I got here are starting to wear off, and all the talking is making it hurt more.”

Lassiter stood up and opened the door to the exam room; there was a nurse passing by, and he shoved his badge into the young man's face to get immediate attention. “Get me a soft ice pack for facial tissue injury,” he ordered. When the nurse looked a little confused and started to speak, he narrowed his eyes and twitched the badge. “Now.”

“Okay, okay.” The nurse put his hands up and turned back in the other direction. Lassiter watched him go to the nurses' station, where he turned a corner, presumably for the supply area.

“I love it when you're all ordery,” Shawn said. 

Lassiter ignored him, scowling at the nurse when he came back with a small white cloth bundle that had ties on the end. He snatched it out of the nurse's hands and went back into the room, closing the door. “Here.” 

“Thanks,” Shawn said, gingerly holding the cold pack to the side of his face. “Anyway, then he said it was 'faggot season', and I was trying to stall, thinking maybe someone else would come outside, or see and call the cops, or whatever, so I said it was duck season instead.” He clicked his tongue. “I really hope we quack this case, you know.”

“Uh huh,” Lassiter said dryly. He watched him adjust the ice pack to the dark spot around his right eye. He didn't say anything else while Shawn described the rest of the threats and then the beating that had followed, though his jaw tightened. “This is ridiculous,” he said finally. “I don't think you should be working this case.”

Shawn's uncovered eye looked indignant. “I don't think you should be working that _face_ , but here we are. You know damn well I can help here where others can't—I got the victims to talk easier, and I can see in two seconds what others won't notice in two years.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes, and then his expression softened back into mild annoyance when Shawn winced again at the feel of anything at all touching his bruised face. “Here,” he said, and took the pack. He cupped Shawn's chin with one hand, and then very gently laid the cold compress on his cheek. Shawn tensed a little, and then he relaxed. “Any better?” Lassiter asked him.

“Yeah, a little, thanks.” He sighed and closed his eyes. There was a long pause, and while he didn't open his eyes, there was a small frown creasing his forehead. “Lassie?”

“Yeah.”

“Um...” Shawn fidgeted, messing with the splints around his fingers a little. “I think it's a cop,” he said in a rush. Lassiter didn't say anything or move, and Shawn peeked open his less-blackened eye to gauge his reaction. 

“I thought you said there were two of them,” he said slowly.

“There were. One at the end of the alley, making sure there weren't any interruptions—I saw his face, but not _really_ good, because everything was blurry, but he stood like a cop, and he knew what the response time was going to be, because he called the other one off so they'd have enough time to get away—it had nothing to do with how much he'd hurt me already and whether or not it was enough. I probably saved myself a couple of broken ribs or a kick to the face by being a smart ass and stalling for as long as I did.” He tried to make a face and almost jumped at how much it hurt. Lassiter adjusted the cold pack over his eye, still holding his chin in one hand. “And when I was looking at the file,” Shawn went on, “I was surprised at how clean it was. When I talked to the victims I could find, they had lots more to say than was in their statements. One of them even told me he thought there might have been two of them. And they all acted like they were afraid of talking to the cops—I thought maybe it was just the homophobic attitude, or the fear of being dismissed or laughed at or not taken seriously, but... no, they're literally afraid of your officers. Not just of talking to them, _of_ them.”

“Did any of the victims have a specific reason?”

“No, not that they told me.” Shawn considered. “One of them, Damien Cole, said one of the two that came to his hospital room for his statement was messing with his phone instead of writing stuff down, and someone else, Tommy someone, said one of them was like, sneering at him and muttered to the other cop, something about how he didn't know why any of them were surprised.”

“I'll look at their statements and find out which officers those were. Do you think you can ask them about that again, get more details? They do seem more comfortable talking to you.”

Shawn shrugged. “I tried suggesting they talk to the assistant chief about it, since you deal with cases and victims and the public more than the chief does, but Tommy was like, 'Uh, no thanks, it's over now anyway' and Andy looked scared—he just shook his head and then left right away.”

Lassiter clenched his jaw. “I'm sure you also saw that there are no official leads,” he said after a moment. “But I've been going back to this case over the last few months in between others. That's why it unnerved me when I found out you were at that bar when you came here by yourself—as soon as I got that text, I checked for recent call reports for altercations, and I checked to see which officers were nearest.”

Shawn's eye widened. “You think it's a cop, too,” he said quietly.

He had barely allowed himself to acknowledge this because of the implications, but of course Shawn had known immediately. “Yes,” he said.

Shawn's gaze went slightly out of focus and his breathing slowed, and Lassiter carefully moved and reapplied the cold pack to the other side of his face, letting him think. “Any idea which one?” he asked finally.

“I have a few ideas, nothing concrete.” He exhaled hard through his nose at the memory of a few of them making jokes, laughing, when one young man was beaten nearly into a coma. “Unfortunately, it's a little hard to distinguish the ones who just say cruel things versus the ones who would act on them, because their attitudes are not only the norm here, but somewhat expected. It's those that don't find it almighty hilarious that are questioned. If one wanted to... to not be brought into the spotlight and scrutinized himself, one would have to either join in, or at least keep his mouth shut.”

“Mmm,” Shawn said softly. He looked back up. “Um... just curious... that night you came home really mad...? You wouldn't tell me why, only that the others were being assholes. Was that what it was about?”

Lassiter couldn't look at him. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Several of them were saying inappropriate and terrible things about the victims, and when I told them to shut it, they started asking pointed questions about my personal life, and then making speculations when I wouldn't give them anything. I had to walk away before I did something that would get me fired, or worse. That plus the whole general attitude made me furious, made me want to hurt them... or anyone. I took it out on you and I'm sorry.” He paused, tried to look at him, still couldn't. "Very sorry."

He felt Shawn move his face a little, and Lassiter looked up in time to see him lightly kiss his palm before settling his chin back into the cup his hand made. Both of Shawn's eyes were closed again and he seemed a little more relaxed. “What time is it?” he mumbled. “Time for them to set my stupid hand so I can get some sleep?”

“I believe the ER doctor said they were calling in a hand specialist.” He looked around the small room, but there wasn't a clock, and he would have to let go of Shawn in order to check his phone, which he didn't want to do.

The door opened, and he almost jerked his hands away from Shawn's face anyway—and then he saw it was Juliet, looking very pale and red-eyed. She looked anxiously at Shawn, and when he tried to smile for her, he whimpered and grabbed for the ice pack himself again. Lassiter let him have it and sat back in the chair so that Juliet had room to put her arms around him, very carefully.

“Stop scaring me,” she whispered into his neck. “Shawn. Please.”

“Danger loves me,” he said, and then, “I'm sorry, Jules.” Meaning it. His good eye flicked to Lassiter. “Sorry to you too, okay?”

“You were the one who was hurt,” Juliet said, looking confused. “Although I do want to know why you didn't call me back, or why you were at a bar when you told me you were at a museum.”

“Um.” Shawn glanced at Lassiter again. “Can you tell her? It still hurts to talk.”

Lassiter sighed. “Not a coincidence at all,” he said to Juliet. “He knows about the case—he woke up and stood in the hall listening to us talk about it. Then he decided to find out what it was we decided to keep secret from him, so he broke into my briefcase, got the file, and started investigating the assaults.” Juliet's mouth dropped open. “I'm going to get his official statement tomorrow, where we can thoroughly go over everything else the other victims told him that didn't get put into their own statements, and what he saw and figured out tonight.” Lassiter looked at Shawn carefully before going on. “He says he's not mad that we talked without him... but we can't be mad that he got involved with the case, and no more secrets.”

“You promised,” Shawn said to Juliet.

She looked at his hand, his face, the bruises on his side. “So did you,” she said quietly. 

He nodded. “Everyone's naughty, and everyone's sorry, and we're all going to go to bed without dessert. At least until I can do things with my face again.” Juliet smiled a little, and one corner of his mouth lifted, trying to join her, and then he laid the ice pack on his thigh and held out his better hand. “A fresh start for the Shassiet Musketeers. No more secrets, no more sneaking... but lots more sexing.” He shook his hand. “Come on, I can't be left hanging forever, I'm going to lose all feeling in this arm too. Shawn, Lassie, and Juliet— _Shassiet_. Three, on three.”

Juliet chuckled and laid her hand on top of his, and then they both looked at Lassiter, who hadn't moved. “That's a stupid name,” he said.

“Lassie,” Shawn groaned. “Don't be purchase necessary to win.”

“Come on, Carlton,” Juliet said.

He sighed and stood up, his hand hovering over both of theirs. “Only if you never call us that again.”

“You can't tell me what to do,” Shawn said serenely, and then he lifted his hand enough to quickly snatch Lassiter's hand under his instead of waiting for it to go on top of Juliet's. “Onetwothree _WILDCATS_.”

“You're an idiot,” Lassiter said, but he was starting to smile again, and he made no move to pull away until Shawn released him.

“I've been told,” Shawn said, and applied the cold pack to his cheek again. “So, the case. What happens now?”

“You give your official statement about everything you know, and what happened to you, tomorrow at the station,” Juliet said. “Carlton will be able to at least get some ideas about suspects, hopefully.”

“About that...” Lassiter said slowly. He glanced at both of them, making sure they were looking at him. “I suppose... in the spirit of having absolutely everything on the table...” He looked at Shawn and frowned. “I'm going to trust you to not do anything stupid.”

“Anything at all? Because I still haven't ruled out painting your living room pink.”

“Rule it out.” He looked at Juliet now. “Thanks to everything Shawn managed to find out, and everything he's told me about what he saw and heard tonight... I have a little more than an idea about who it might be.”

“You think you know?” Shawn asked, sitting up straight and then trying to stifle a grunt of pain.

“Yes.”

“What is it?” Juliet asked, a vertical line on her forehead. _What_ , not _who_ —she'd recognized that there was a problem, potentially a big one. 

“Jules,” Shawn said quietly. When she looked at him, he hesitated, just slightly, but it gave Lassiter more confidence in him, because he also recognized the issue and wasn't taking it lightly. “It's a cop,” he said, and then he glanced at Lassiter and tilted his head to one side a little. “Both of them?”

“No. If I'm right... it's an officer and his brother.” He looked at the closed door, just to make sure, and then he decided that if he couldn't trust these two, he couldn't trust anyone—which had been his personal motto for most of his life, but now that he'd experienced having people that were close to him, intelligent people who understood police work (even if one of them scoffed at it most of the time, he _did_ understand it), people that trusted _him_ , he didn't want to go back. He stood up and came closer to them, so that he and Juliet were almost huddled around Shawn on the exam table. “I think it's Chris and Leo Nolan,” he said.

“Chief Brian Nolan,” Shawn whispered. “So... his sons?”

“Nephews. Chris Nolan is on the force. His brother...” Lassiter looked at Shawn. “Do you remember when I took you to the firing range?”

Shawn's mouth dropped open a little, and then he clenched his unhurt fist. “I knew I saw him somewhere before! Stranger danger! I didn't remember where right away because I was all freaked, and, you know." He glanced at his hand again before back up to Lassiter. "Did you suspect them then?”

“Not as much, but I'd considered them. That's why I was hoping when you were looking at him and moved closer to me that you'd seen something.”

Shawn shook his head. “Just his creep-tacular target sheet and a bad feeling.”

Juliet was frowning deeply as she thought fast. “If they're the suspects, do you think the chief knows?”

Lassiter shrugged. “I really don't know—he doesn't seem to care about progress on the case, and changes the subject to other matters if I bring it up, or if someone else is assaulted, but that could easily mean that he just doesn't care, or that he's turning a blind eye to it, not necessarily that he's aware of who's behind it.”

“I could find out,” Shawn said quietly.

“You've found out enough.”

“Have not. I still don't know what's in a Wonderball.” He glanced at Juliet, who had a warning look on her face. “I have to go to the station tomorrow anyway, to give my statement, right? I just want a peek at him—I might not even have to talk to him, and I might be able to tell how much he knows in, like, a minute.”

“No,” Lassiter said, but that had given him a different idea. “However, if you think you would be all right with it—and I would be there too—I could call Chris Nolan in to interview you about what happened. Technically, taking your statement is below my pay grade, but I was going to do it so that it would actually be accurate, and because this is now _somewhat_ personal.”

“That wouldn't be construed as a conflict of interest?” Juliet asked. “I mean... Shawn and I are staying with you.”

“Which makes it make more sense that a regular officer interrogate me,” Shawn said.

“Interview you,” Lassiter corrected.

“Interrogate,” Shawn repeated. “And yeah, that's fine—if I recognize him, then we'll know. And if he reacts to me being there, and possibly recognizing him, we'll also know. Can you drag up a file photo of his brother, too?”

“I'm sure.”

“It might be so ugly that your computer dies,” Shawn warned, just as the door opened.

A nurse stuck her head into the room. “Doing okay, Mr. Spencer?”

He held up his hand. “When do I get this taken care of? I'm ready for my story so I can go sleepy-bye.”

She smiled. “Dr. Soto should be here within the hour. How's your pain, scale of one to ten?”

“...five? Can I have another shot?”

She glanced down at the clipboard in her hands. “In a little while—you'll get something a lot stronger when they're setting your hand.” She nodded to the lump of white cloth on his leg. “Would you like another cold pack?”

“Yeah, thanks.” As the nurse left to retrieve a fresh one, Shawn pressed the older ice pack to his side and grimaced. “Tom Petty was right—the waiting is the hardest part. This is going to suck.” He looked at Lassiter. “Tell me an embarrassing story so I can think about that instead of the splintery shards of my bones grinding together.”

“I don't have any.”

“Really?” Shawn demanded. “You're not embarrassed by _anything_ you've done? How about I call your sister and ask her?”

“Or you could ask his former partner,” Juliet said sweetly. “There was the time he fell asleep when Chief Vick was talking.”

Shawn looked delighted and Lassiter shook his head. “That's not embarrassing,” he said. “She was talking about... shopping, or something. There was no reason at all for me to give a crap.”

“She was talking about thefts at a shoe store,” Juliet told Shawn. “And it just so happened that she found these amazingly cute heelie sandals that were light green, and... oh my god.” She folded her arms as Shawn let his head fall slightly to the side and he closed his eyes and pretended to snore. Lassiter smirked, and she gave him a haughty look. “Pigeons,” she said.

Lassiter's smirk dried up. “No. Uncle.”

She smiled again, victorious. “But Carlton, it's not nice to be keeping secrets from each other.”

Shawn had been grinning in anticipation, and now his too fell off of his face. “Wait, does that mean you're going to tell him about the time I gave Gus one of your edible panties because he was hungry and I thought it was a fruit roll-up?”

Lassiter stared at him for a moment, and then when he glanced at Juliet, she shrugged, exasperated. “Because I usually keep fruit snacks in the same bedroom drawer as the hand ties and my strap-on.”

The door to the exam room had just started to swing open, and everyone looked up at the nurse, who had a fresh ice pack in her hands and an incredulous look on her face. “Um... h—here you go, Mr. Spencer.”

“Thank you _so_ much,” Shawn said, grinning as widely as he could while Juliet cringed and turned her face away from the nurse, who made her exit very quickly and without looking at any of them. Shawn put the ice pack on his cheek and started snickering. “That one was for me,” he said. “Thank you, universe. That _almost_ makes up for this. Jules, I love you.”

Juliet had put her hands over her face and was either laughing or crying—she was silent, but her shoulders quivered. She wasn't an easy crier, but she'd been very stressed by everything that had happened, and Lassiter knew women tended to lose it a little in situations like this, detective or not. He wanted to give her an out, and besides, he was curious.

“Why do you have a... one of those?” he asked.

“A—? Oh.” She wiped at her eyes, and he saw that she had indeed been crying, but that it had been due to laughter. “Do you really need to ask?”

“Yeah, really,” Shawn scoffed. “Why do you think? I don't always get to sleep with you every other week.”

“I... see.” But he didn't—it was hard to get past the image of Juliet with a fake... that. And of her using it on Shawn. Maybe while he was giving someone a blowjob at the same time.

“You can see,” Shawn said, reading his mind again. “That sounds hot. You can watch her fuck me the next time you visit us at home.” He glanced at Juliet, almost hopefully. “You didn't bring it, did you?”

“No—I kinda thought that would be a bit much to explain to airport security if we were stopped.”

Shawn nodded, and then he snickered again. “Open wide for the airplane," he said.


	14. The Cop Shop Drop

Juliet insisted on going to the police station with Shawn while he gave his statement and checked out the officer Carlton thought might be the one that had helped attack him. Carlton was against it, of course, but when she pointed out that she would be able to help keep Shawn from saying too much before they'd all decided what they were going to do, or from saying too much because he was Shawn, Carlton relented. Shortly after lunch the next day, Juliet and Shawn were in a small office, waiting for Officer Nolan to stop arguing with his superior officer over this assignment.

“Remember to not react if it's him,” she told Shawn quietly. “Carlton knows these people better than we do.”

“Jules, if I could keep a straight face when Gus told me he pees sitting down because it's good for his circulation, I think I can handle the butt-dumpling that attacked me and pees sitting down because he's dickless.”

She gave him a small smile and patted his arm just as the door opened and a tall officer in uniform came in. Shawn looked at him blandly as he dropped into a chair, gave him an impatient look, and then looked at Juliet.

“Ma'am,” he said. “You got a reason for being here? I was told to interview one gay assault victim.”

Juliet looked at him coldly, glad that she and Shawn had deliberately not set a code word between them so that he could say yes or no on this being the scum that had helped hurt him, because she was already losing her resolve to sit quietly and simply let Shawn answer the questions and just nudge him if he started getting out of control. She should have left it at Carlton's house, where she wouldn't be tempted, because they had all agreed that they wanted this to go down with as little backlash to her department as possible, but they were already involved. She opened her purse and snatched out her badge, resisting the urge to slam it into this so-called officer's face.

“I'm Detective Juliet O'Hara, of the Santa Barbara Police Department,” she said. “Shawn Spencer lives with me, and I want to know what you're going to do to apprehend the cowards who assaulted him.”

Officer Chris Nolan looked surprised, glanced at Shawn quickly, and then looked back at her. “Oh, you're—what—roommates?”

“Yes.” 

“In California.”

“Yes.”

“What brings you to Macon?”

“We're visiting a friend.” Which was technically true. And why was this guy asking her questions instead of Shawn? She frowned at him again. “I'm here to lend any support I can to Shawn, and, if necessary, to you, in order to find out who is hurting people, and to stop them. I'm sure you have questions to ask him, to find out what he saw and what he remembers.”

“Oh. Uh... sure.” Nolan sighed heavily, as though this was tantamount to cleaning a cat litter box, and clicked the point of his pen down. 

He started by asking the standard questions—name, date of birth, address, social security number, place of employment—and all of that was fine. But then he seemed to think he had everything, and started to thank them—looking at her, not at Shawn—for coming in.

“It's not a problem,” she said. “My roommate was hurt pretty badly, and I wanted to support him while he had to tell you what he went through.”

“Of course,” Nolan said, and finally looked at Shawn. “So, tell me all you saw.”

Shawn had been sitting quietly throughout all of this, his face neutral, not fidgeting. “I came out of the bar at about eight-thirty, and there was someone waiting to ambush me,” he said calmly. “I saw that he had a pipe. He came at me, calling me names and threatening me. He was between me and the door, so I couldn't get back in. He hit me in the face three times, and then swung the pipe at me. I tried to put my hands up, and it hit my left hand. I fell down and he hit me with the pipe some more, on my side and back. Some people came out of the bar, including the bartender, and they saw me on the ground and called 911. I woke up in the ambulance, passed out again, and then had them call Detective O'Hara when I got to the ER.” 

While Nolan made notes, even briefer than this brief statement, Juliet tried to catch Shawn's eye, but he was studying the officer, not looking at her. She didn't need to ask why he'd referred to her as Detective even though they were familiar, but she wanted to get any indication of whether or not this was the man who'd blocked the alleyway. She blinked—he hadn't mentioned the second man.

“And that's it?” Nolan asked.

Shawn seemed to be waiting, and when Nolan looked up at him, his expression turned thoughtful. “No,” he said slowly. “I think there might have been someone else there.”

Nolan just looked at him, not blinking, not moving. “Someone else from the bar? A witness?”

“Maybe,” Shawn allowed. “But the person I think I saw was... farther away. Near the parking lot.”

“And what did this person look like?”

Shawn seemed to think about it, and Juliet kept on her own careful, blank expression, while watching Nolan out of the corner of her eye. He hadn't asked what the man who had hurt Shawn had looked like, only the possible accomplice.

“I'm not sure,” Shawn said finally. “I didn't get a good look at his face, and it was dark.”

“Mmmhmm,” Nolan said, and looked down to write some more. Juliet inched her foot toward Shawn's, trying to get him to look at her, but he still refused, though he touched his shoe to hers, acknowledging her attempt. “Okay, think that's about all, Mr. Spencer,” he said, and stood. “We got your phone number, and someone will get a hold of you if anything turns up.”

“Okay.”

Juliet glared at his back as he left and closed the door—no apology for the situation, no promise to look into it, no common courtesy, no correct procedure. For one, he wasn't supposed to just leave them in the office without telling them to stay there or that they could leave. Carlton had been absolutely right about the state of this police department. She looked at Shawn, who had closed his eyes and put two fingers near his eyebrow—not pretending to be psychic, but focusing his memory. She touched his arm, and he took her hand, not tightly but entwining his fingers with hers.

“Lassie,” he said, opening his eyes.

She stood and gently tugged on his arm. “You know where his office is?”

“He's right outside.”

Juliet glanced at the door again in time to see Carlton approaching from the hall; he came in and closed the door behind him, looking between them. “Well?” he demanded. “Was that him?”

“Definitely,” Shawn said. “And you might want to go after him, because I think he's about to blow this popsicle stand.”

Carlton looked at him a second longer, then he glanced pointedly at Juliet and turned to go without further questions—he knew Shawn well enough and trusted him enough now to just go when he said go; she was to get the information. She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

“I recognized him right away,” he said. “That's the guy who was standing by the parking lot, the one that told he other asshole they had seven minutes. He didn't ask me what the other guy looked like, only the second one. And he didn't write any of that down—his last few notes were about you.” He closed his eyes again. “'White female, blonde/blue, 5'6, 115, det. badge, smart mouth'. With an arrow back up to your name.” He opened his eyes again and shrugged. “What he said, not me. Your mouth has more smarts than this whole lemonade booth.”

She goggled at him. “Smart _mouth_?” She turned around to go after Carlton, but Shawn grabbed her elbow. 

“He won't still be here, I wasn't kidding about thinking he's leaving,” he said. “I just wanted Lassie to go see for sure, since it would only take him a few seconds to just walk out and blow, and he'd probably have you in a saferoom by now.”

“I'm sure he'll try.”

“He'll be back in a minute, once he realizes Nolan is gone.”

It was more than a minute—it felt like twenty or thirty, but the clock on the wall said that it was about ten minutes later that they saw Carlton round the corner of the hall, holding the yellow legal pad Nolan had been writing on and looking thunderous. He came into the office and closed the door. “He's gone,” he said shortly, almost biting the words out. “Took off in his personal, and he isn't responding to radio calls. I also tried his cell phone, but it went to voicemail. I tried to get the chief, but he's _just_ been called away on a family emergency.” He looked at Shawn grimly. “You have thirty seconds to tell me everything before I put out the APB.”

“I don't think all-purpose boots are going to help you catch him.”

“ _All Points Bulletin_ ,” Carlton snapped.

“Ah, right.” Shawn pointed to the pad. “You saw it. And I told you that was him.” He shrugged. “That's everything. He didn't want to let me tell what happened, he didn't ask me what the guy looked like, and he only started to actually pay attention to me when I said there was a second person. He asked what _that_ guy looked like, but I told him I didn't see. Then he basically just bolted, but not before I saw what he wrote about Jules.”

Carlton clenched his jaw and looked at the pad again, and then met Juliet's eyes. “I want you—” he began.

“To stay with Shawn at your house,” she finished. 

“No,” he said. “I want you both to stay here.”

“No,” Shawn said, and they both looked at him. He indicated the yellow pad again. “Where'd you find that?”

Carlton glared at him. “On his desk, why?”

“Exactly, why?” Shawn glanced between them again, and then he rolled his good eye. “Why'd he leave it there? Why write it in the first place, and then scat? Her name, her physical description, and a note about something some hick good-ol'-boy would find super irritating, just left on his desk in the middle of the bullpen where anyone could see it if they looked?”

Carlton looked startled and Juliet's mouth dropped open, disbelieving the nerve and stupidity of these men. “It's an instruction,” she said.

“He has another accomplice,” Carlton said, and whirled around, trying to gauge who might have seen it, or who might have deliberately looked. 

Juliet took Shawn's hand, mostly to make sure he wouldn't go bolting after Carlton if he left the room. “We'll go back to your house,” she said.

“Or,” Shawn said, in the tone of voice that made her squeeze his fingers, “we could go get them.”

“Shawn, for the love of god,” she hissed.

Carlton turned back and leveled a long finger at Shawn's face. “No,” he said, almost as if he was admonishing a small child. “Don't even think about it.”

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” He grinned quickly, and then tried to pull his hand away from Juliet. She held on, and he gave her an indignant look. “ _We_ can,” he said. “They're stupid hicks. They probably want to teach you a lesson for being a woman and daring to speak to them without a man present or something, and of course I don't count. And they've already gone after me, and now they know I saw two of them. Either the chief is in on it, or they just didn't want him helping Lassie go after them. If we go right for them, we have the element of surprise.” He looked at Carlton. “You have somewhat official business trying to contact him at his home, since he left without official leave, or whatever, and is incommunicado.”

“Neither of you two have any official business whatsoever,” he retorted.

“Jules is still a cop, even if she's out of her jurisdiction,” Shawn argued. “Doesn't that count for anything? Especially, if, say, I walked up to his front door and told him that I knew it was his brother, and he tried to attack me again?”

“That's the stupid thing I've ever heard!” Carlton said. 

“No, it isn't—first of all, squirrels are cute and you have issues. Second of all, I re-arranged all of your books to make the first word in the titles a sentence that says, 'How An Army Flock To The Greatest General Target When Patton Select Nazi World Furniture' and you didn't even notice.” Juliet had to let go of his hand in order to hide the smirk that wanted to turn into a bray of giggles, and Shawn folded his arms, still looking at Carlton, who was looking at him as if he'd never seen him, or anything like him, ever before. “And thirdly,” Shawn continued, “he'll probably come out of his house and attack me if I tell him his father smelt of elderberries, his brother was going to be arrested for being an oozing redneck sore on the ass of humanity, and that my smart mouth roommate was going to slap the Bejesus out of his nanodick while wearing peppermint lipstick, heels, and a pro-choice button.”

Carlton looked at Juliet and shook his head, at a loss. It was something only Shawn seemed to be able to incite in him. “You can't wear peppermint lipstick,” he said. “I'm allergic to mint.”

She smiled, thinking about a disastrous attempt to throw him a surprise birthday party. “I remember you telling me that.”

“Bubblegum lipstick,” Shawn said, and nodded as if that was decided. “I'll go to his house and throw a tizzy, Jules you follow me, then Lassie, you come after both of us and you'll have probable cause to either get in the house after them, or just arrest them on the lawn. I'll make sure of that.” 

He took a step toward the door, and Carlton grabbed his shirt. “No,” he said again, loudly. “Stop it, Shawn. You're going to get hurt worse. _And_ this is just another one of your reckless plans that ends up throwing the whole department into a shambles because _you have no official status_.”

“Exactly,” he said. “This is how I operate. I'm Dr. Strangelove.”

Carlton let go of Shawn's sleeve and ran a hand over his hair. “That movie was a parallel of the Cold War and has no bearing here.”

Shawn grinned, his most charming smile when he was sure he was going to get his way. “I'm Doctor Feelgood?”

“You won't be if you do anything other than go to my house and lie low. This is a potentially volatile situation with suspects who have already been violent. Neither of us wants to see you in the hospital again, and that's almost certainly where you're going to end up if you keep talking like this and thinking you're invincible.”

“If I was invincible, I would just knock on his door and smash the crime scene photos of Jacob Tate in his face,” Shawn said. “Remember? The nineteen-year-old kid who might die, and even if he doesn't, will never look the same because they bashed his face in? Who wants to bet they're going to go after someone else even worse than they got me? At least I was able to stall. What happens when they ambush someone who has no idea what to do to try to get away? Or if the Neanderthal brother decides he wants to take the gun he had at the shooting range instead of the pipe? Remember his target sheet? Because I do. And I remember the way he looked at me—that was pure, down-in-your-guts hate. He's not going to stop, and everyone but you in this whole backwater cop shop doesn't give a fuck. _I can help!_ ”

Carlton closed his eyes for a second and then held both of his hands up, trying to calm him down and keep himself from flying off the handle as well. “Shawn. We don't have time for this. The answer is no. Go with Juliet to my house.”

Shawn looked at Juliet and raised his eyebrows, and she bit her lip. “Shawn... what if he uses that gun on _you_? What if we lose you?”

He blinked. “I'd have you for backup.”

Carlton threw his arms in the air. “You are _so_ reckless! Do you _ever_ consider what might happen to you?”

Shawn frowned a little, and his eyes flickered between them. “Sure,” he said. “That's why I'm taking cops with me.” He sighed. “Both of you know I'm going to do it anyway, so who's really wasting time, here? If we go before you put out the All-Points, which I think we should, they won't know we're coming. We could have them all buttoned up before they know we're actually on to them.”

“You are not an officer, I can't let you—“

“You won't know!” Shawn insisted. “And me not being a cop is a _good_ thing—I don't have to abide by your stupid rules that say I can lose my job or cause backlash by making a scene on someone's property, or that I need a warrant to sneak in somewhere and see what I can find out. You don't even know the number of cases I solved by getting clues that way. Results, Lassie. Remember?”

“Not by doing illegal things!”

Shawn took a step forward. “Then arrest me!”

Carlton paused. “For what?”

“For whatever happens after I go to this assface's house and get evidence or a confession out of them about what they're doing, and find out whoever else might want to go after Jules.” Shawn had set his jaw now, and it was clear that he wasn't going to back down. “I'm serious. Arrest me afterwards if you need to, I don't care. But they're hurting people, they're going to try something with Jules, and _I can stop them_. I'm going to stop them. Come back me up, or answer the phone when the neighbors call 911.”

“Oh, I'm going to put handcuffs on you,” Calton snapped. Shawn suddenly grinned widely at him, and he realized the implication, shook his head in exasperation, looked at Juliet for help, and then looked uncertain when he saw the look on her face. “Juliet, you can't be considering this.”

“Considering what?” she said. “You don't know anything. Not even the fact that we both know he's right.” She began ticking things off of her fingers. “If Nolan is on the lam, he's far more dangerous, especially because he clearly wants to protect his brother and himself. His brother isn't going to stop—if he was, he would have stopped after nearly killing someone. There's someone else in this department that at least knows what they've been doing and will probably be helping them. No one else in this department cares about the men who have been assaulted, nor do they care to actually investigate or to stop it. Your chief, the only one superior to you, isn't going to be helpful because this involves his family.” She was running out of fingers, and she used the pointer of her other hand to indicate Shawn. “He can help. Carlton, you've seen how he works, you've seen how he sees things, and you've seen his luck. No, I'm not _counting_ on that, but—“ She paused, unsure how to explain, because she kind of _was_ counting on it. Counting on Shawn, at least. “There's no Gus to go with him this time, but there's me. And you.”

“No one else cares, no one else is going to do the right thing and actually take care of this,” Shawn said. “We've got to.”

Carlton looked back and forth between them, so incredulous that he could only shake his head. “You two are insane.” Shawn and Juliet exchanged a look, but neither spoke, because they both knew this was the tipping point. Carlton had folded his arms and was glaring at a spot in the wall between them, and she thought he was at war between his training, his ordered, procedural mind, and what he knew and felt in his gut. “Neither of you has a weapon,” he said finally.

“I have my scathing wit,” Shawn offered. “And...” He rifled through his pocket and came out with a Bic and a few coins. “A pen. It's mightier than a sword. Also thirty-seven cents, because we could all use a little change.”

Carlton rolled his eyes and addressed Juliet. “If we're doing this, you're coming with me. We follow Shawn, and I back him up and make the arrests at Nolan's house. If you're needed, it'll look better in the report for you to get the spare Glock under the seat of my car and come around as backup than if you take one of my weapons without my consent, which it would have to be if I didn't know what you two were doing.”

“I don't get one?” Shawn asked, pouting slightly.

“No. You're not licensed to carry in any state, and you're not a cop.” Carlton scowled at him. “You're just looking to get your other arm broken.”

“Plus it wouldn't look good for you if you went to confront the man you believed had attacked you and you were illegally carrying a concealed firearm,” Juliet added. Shawn shrugged. 

“I can't believe this,” Carlton muttered under his breath. He scrubbed a palm over his face, and then he jerked his head toward the door in irritation. “Go. Both of them live at 459 Darby Road—take the street out front west for four blocks, left at the first light, go five or six to Greenview Lane, take a right, three streets to Darby, take a left. You have five minutes and we're dragging you out.”

Shawn held his hand out to Juliet. “Car keys.”

She held them out, but didn't let go when he touched them. He glanced at her face and his expression softened, then he stepped closer to her, put his right hand on her cheek, and kissed her. “I'll be fine,” he whispered, and then glanced at Carlton. “I'm looking forward to those handcuffs.”

“Right,” he said dryly, his arms folded again.

Shawn kissed Juliet again, took the keys, and then he headed for the door. On his way he reached out and lightly dragged his hand along Carlton's forearm, not looking at him, just going. Carlton looked at Juliet, his face set and furious, and scared. She wanted to say something, or anything, but her mouth was dry and her heart was going too hard, so she just walked toward him and rested her forehead against his shoulder when he put an arm around her.

.

Five minutes, he'd said. It would have only taken Shawn about ten to get to Nolan's house, so Lassiter and Juliet got into his car and headed that way after five, both of them knowing and agreeing without speaking that they didn't actually want to give him any longer than that for a head start, not with how he'd been beaten less than twenty-four hours ago, and not with how he was. This was _such_ a stupid plan. Lassiter glanced at Juliet, wanting to rant some more, but caught himself when he saw how pale her face was, how tightly her mouth was pressed down. She knew. So why had she agreed, why had she gotten him to go along too? He gripped the steering wheel and drove faster. He knew too.

They were at a red light, waiting to make the first left turn, when the radio crackled—shots fired on the 400 block of Darby Road. 

“ _Son of a bitch!_ ” he roared, hit the lights and siren, and floored it. Juliet simply held on.


	15. Gridlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much uncool language, including lots of homophobic slurs, the R-word, and the use of the word "gypsy" as synonymous with "fortune-teller/palm-reader". Also, there is a reference to an episode of a TV show that didn't actually air until about a year later, but I had the scene written before I got the timeline set and couldn't bear to part with it.

  
_I got a bulletproof heart; you've got a hollow-point smile_  
—My Chemical Romance, “[Bulletproof Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rxaXSo7Reco)”

  
Nolan and his brother had inherited the house they'd grown up in when their father died five or six years ago; Lassiter normally didn't give shit one about the personal life of anyone he worked with, particularly here, but Peter Nolan, a widower and a mechanic, had been murdered. The case had never been solved, so Lassiter had read about it when he'd joined the force here as a detective. The house was small, only three bedrooms on a double lot, but the boasting point had been the garage, which Peter had used for on-the-side vehicle repairs. The interior of the garage clearly hadn't been used since the senior Nolan had died, judging by the thick coating of dust on the floor, the moldy-looking furniture shoved in a mass near one of the side doors, and the lights that didn't work. Lassiter noted all of this as he crouched behind a tarped vehicle sitting under a lift and watched Juliet creeping up on the large mountain of crap that was standing behind Shawn, who was on his knees, and pointing a gun at his head. That was Leo Nolan, and Lassiter was worried because they hadn't seen Chris yet... but he was more concerned at the moment with the size of the gun Leo was holding, the way he was growling at Shawn, and what would happen if he turned around and saw Juliet aiming the Glock at him.

“I'm just saying it's ironic,” Shawn said to the ground, both hands raised. “You're yelling at me for liking dick, yet you're being a massive one and I don't like you.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Leo said, and smacked him in the back of the head with the butt of the gun. “You like Satan's dick? You're gonna find out the second you get to hell.”

“Ow,” Shawn said, and then he snorted and started to giggle.

“You think this is funny?” Leo said incredulously. “Are all faggots this retarded?”

“Part of it is funny,” Shawn said, still snickering. “I mean, there's a story. I was in New Orleans and this gypsy told me I was going to die by being shot execution-style, and here we are. But I gotta say, man, I have faith that she was full of beans _and_ rice, because she also told me something else that turned out to not be true.”

Another door opened, and Juliet managed to step behind a tall metal cabinet as Chris ran in, letting the door bang behind him. “What are you doing?” he demanded of his brother. “I told you to bring him back here and leave him for later. _Later_. Did you discharge that? Someone called the station and they're going to have to come here—I heard the call on the radio in the basement. You just lost us any possible getaway time.”

“I just aimed at his feet to get 'im going out here. This motherfucker got a smart mouth,” Leo said, knocking Shawn's head with the barrel of his gun. “He don't know when to quit.”

“He probably learnt it from his lippy roommate—I got something for her to put her lips on.”

“Her mouth isn't that small,” Shawn said.

“You want to die, cocksucker?” Chris asked him. “I got no qualms at all about using you for a shield—you think anyone's going to give a shit about you? We happen to have _real_ men here, you California pussy.”

“Wait, I thought pussy was good. You guys are confusing.” Shawn looked up. “Which isn't really that surprising, seeing as how you're the one that's confused—you and everyone like you are pathetic, shitty jerks who are stuck in junior high. The only real man in your whole department is Lassiter. He'll be coming for me—O'Hara too. You two don't even know what's coming for you.”

Chris Nolan pointed at Shawn and looked at his brother. “Shut him up. I don't care how. We were going to waste him anyway.”

Lassiter leveled his gun, which had been pointed at the ceiling, toward the two men that were standing in the center of the room, and prepared to launch himself up and toward them; half a second before he went, he saw movement, and Juliet was there, standing behind Leo and aiming at him.

“Freeze!” she shouted. “Leo Nolan, drop your weapon. Drop it right now!” She took a couple of steps to her left so that Leo wasn't blocking her view to Chris, which unfortunately blocked Lassiter's view to everything except her back. He darted out from behind the car and to a stack of boxes, peering around it but not showing himself yet. 

Chris's eyes fell on Juliet and he snarled, his shoulders hunching. “Fucking cunt,” he said. “The fuck did you come from?”

She ignored him. “Drop your weapon, Leo, this is your last warning,” she said. “I am armed and I am not kidding. Put it on the ground and step away from Shawn.”

Chris was looking at his brother now, and he nodded, once down and back up—not a 'do what she says' nod at all. Leo spun around, fast, aiming at Juliet; she and Lassiter both fired, and Leo was thrown back before hitting the ground. The noise was huge, as was Chris's screaming and swearing. Lassiter aimed at him again, but he hesitated because he wasn't armed and Juliet was aiming at him as well. 

Lassiter came around the boxes, and he tracked Chris in his gun sight as he made a dive for the gun Leo had been holding. “Drop it!” Lassiter shouted, but Shawn had moved too, and he and Chris were wrestling for the gun, thrashing with each other too much for either Lassiter or Juliet to get a good aim. Juliet screamed Shawn's name and took a step forward for him just as Chris yanked the gun out of his hands—he hadn't had a chance of holding onto it, not with the casts and splints on his left hand—and smashed it across his face, then he stood up and pointed it into Juliet's face. Shawn kicked him in the back of one knee and he buckled, but didn't take his aim away from Juliet.

“You fucking bitch,” he panted. “Killed my brother. My _brother_.”

“I didn't want to have to,” she said calmly. “I don't want to hurt you, either. Drop your weapon.”

Lassiter made eye-contact with Shawn, who was still on the ground, and he flicked the tip of his gun toward a stack of more boxes and furniture several feet away, meaning for him to get under cover. Shawn glanced at Juliet and shook his head, and Lassiter glared at him fiercely before turning his attention back to the man holding a gun on Juliet. “Christopher Nolan,” he said loudly. “You're under arrest. Don't make this worse for yourself. I am ordering you to stand down.”

“Eat shit,” Nolan said. He seemed to realize then that Shawn was still on the ground behind him, and he aimed at him before glaring at Juliet and Lassiter again. “Both of you drop 'em and maybe I won't kill your favorite fag.”

“Okay,” Juliet said at once, taking one hand off the pistol and holding it up. “Just relax. I'll put mine down.” She very slowly knelt, not taking her eyes from Nolan's face, and set it on the ground, standing up with her palms raised. 

“You don't have to do this,” Lassiter added, reluctantly releasing the trigger of his own gun. “You haven't killed anyone and there's no reason to change that. We can all walk away.” Not likely, but as someone with good negotiating skills, he knew you said whatever you had to.

Shawn was looking at the gun pointed at his stomach, and he glanced up at Nolan, who wasn't looking at him, but at Lassiter, who was still holding his gun. “You too,” Nolan was saying. “Down. Or I blow him away.”

Also not likely, Lassiter thought, watching Shawn silently crawl away and behind the furniture. As soon as Nolan looked back down to where Shawn had been, Lassiter planned to grab Juliet and haul her behind the stack as well, and if Nolan made him discharge his own weapon, they would just have to see which one of them did walk away. If either of them did. As long as both Juliet and Shawn did, he was fine with that.

“Easy,” Lassiter said, holding his gun loosely, as he lowered it down, but he still didn't let go—he didn't, couldn't take his eyes from Nolan, knowing it would happen any second.

There—he looked down, and Lassiter raised his gun and stepped toward Juliet, but she hadn't seen him. She made for the gun that was aimed at her, trying to shove it upward and then twist it out of Nolan's hands. She almost had it—she had it!—and then while she was turning it around to get her hands around the handle, trying to step back, Nolan lunged forward and punched her in the face. He grabbed her arm, pulled her against him, and took the gun back. Lassiter tried to aim for him as soon as Juliet had twisted the pistol out of his hands, but the crazy son of a bitch was so fast, and he didn't want to chance hitting Juliet himself, not the smallest chance, even with his skill as a marksman, he couldn't hit her. Goddamn her for being as reckless as Spencer.

Lassiter held his gun up, preparing to bend down and give it up, anything if this madman might let her go, but then he jerked to the side as Nolan simply began firing at him. He dove for the stacks of boxes to his right, landing next to Shawn, who was wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open.

“Jules!” he gasped. 

“Lassiter!” Nolan called. “Come out and get what's coming to you, dickbreath! No? I got your bitch, right here. You want her? Or maybe I should have her, huh? For what she did to my brother?”

Shawn lunged, as if he was going to go flying around the edge of their cover, and Lassiter grabbed him. “No!” he hissed. “You stay put! Don't make me tell you again— _I will get her_.”

“You should have left well enough alone,” Nolan was continuing. “You don't know shit about what faggots can do. You don't know—” He sounded as if he was struggling.

Juliet's voice, soft and calm: “Tell us—we'll listen.”

“You shut the fuck up—you killed my brother. You don't _know_ what our father did to him!”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so sorry. You're right—we didn't know. But none of the guys that Leo hurt had anything to do with it. They weren't hurting anyone.”

There was a space between a box and what looked like an antique headboard, and Lassiter crouched down a little, finding that he could see through it and get a view of them; Nolan was looking down at his brother's body, his gun pointed at Juliet's stomach. Lassiter carefully aimed through the hole, but still couldn't get a clear shot without endangering Juliet.

Shawn nudged him and whispered, “Psst! Lassie!”

Lassiter reluctantly took his eyes from Nolan and glared at him. “Stop it, and keep quiet!”

Shawn gestured to an area behind what looked like a broken dresser about ten feet away, and then launched himself toward it before Lassiter could grab him again. “Keep calm, I'm the Doctor,” he hissed. Suddenly he popped up, his arms thrown wide. “Look at me!” he shouted. “I'm a target!”

The second that Nolan turned away from Juliet, Lassiter finally had a clear shot of him, and he didn't hesitate. He fired... but he heard another round go off and saw Shawn go down from the corner of his eye. His vision centered on Nolan, who had frozen, and he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his head, seeing both the man in his gun sight sinking to his knees and Shawn dropping like the stone that had settled in Lassiter's stomach. Nolan fell over, the gun flying out of his hands and landing a few feet away.

“Shawn!” Juliet screamed. She turned toward Lassiter, who hesitated for just a second, torn between going to Shawn and keeping the asshole who had threatened to hurt Juliet in his sights. He stood and whipped around the corner of the stack of boxes, hoping to see them both clearly, and could only see Nolan, who was on the ground near his brother. He had a dark red stain on his front and his hands were scrabbling for the pistol.

“Nolan!” he shouted, raising his gun in both hands. “Give me a reason, you bastard, even a little one.”

“Shawn?” Juliet called, her face grey, her eyes skittering around for him.

“Spencer?” Lassiter frowned, breathing hard, seeing him drop again, _again_ , but unwilling to give the scumbag currently in his sights even one second, because he knew he would take it.

“Here,” came a small voice from the floor.

Juliet met Lassiter's eyes and he nodded his head toward where he'd seen Shawn last, keeping his gun on Nolan; he'd gotten him either in the stomach or chest and didn't feel highly compelled to offer any aid. Juliet ran behind the stacks of furniture and he could hear her fall to the ground and make comforting noises. Lassiter came closer and kicked the other gun away from Nolan before pulling out his phone to call for help. “Don't fucking move,” he growled, and then, “How bad, O'Hara?”

“He's okay,” she called, sounding so relieved her voice shook. "Superficial—winged him across the shoulder. Stitches, nothing major. Shhh, Shawn,” she continued softly. “I know it hurts, you're okay. Yes... I heart-heart you too, idiot.”

Lassiter let out long, slow breath, and made the call. When he'd confirmed that backup and medical were on the way, he knelt down to get a closer look at Nolan and realized he wasn't breathing. He held the gun on him still, just in case, and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He pressed his lips together and stood up again. “Suspect appears to be DRT,” he reported, and then he moved to the brother, checking for his pulse. Also nothing. He slowly lowered his gun, and then he managed to take his eyes off them and glance over his shoulder. He still couldn't see either Juliet or Shawn, and that was killing him, so he bent down to pick up the gun Juliet had come in with and finally took his eyes away from the bodies. 

He came around the corner and his breath caught in his throat like a hunk of gauze soaked in ether as the sight of his—his _Juliet and Shawn_ —both covered in blood. Again. Her nose had gushed but seemed to be slowing, and his shirt was nearly soaked, there was blood on his neck and all over his shoulder and arm. Shawn was on his back, his head propped against Juliet's thigh as she stroked his forehead and murmured to him, the fingers of her other hand entwined with his. Lassiter wanted to go to them, to touch them, to kiss them and hold them and _shake_ them.

Juliet looked up at him. “Are you okay, Carlton?” she asked. “He didn't get you at all?”

“Fine,” he said, through lips that felt numb.

“Sirens,” Shawn mumbled, and a second later, they all heard it. “Tell it like we said—this is on me. _After_ he left I thought he was the second guy, so I just left and followed, and then when Lassie couldn't find him for my statement, Jules thought he was who I went after, so you came here to look for me.”

“Shh, don't talk,” Juliet said, smoothing his hair. “We know. It'll be okay.”

Lassiter turned away from them instead of saying that it wouldn't. He walked back over to the bodies and checked for pulses again; when there was still nothing, he went outside to direct the EMTs and the officers arriving on-scene, losing himself in the procedure instead of the other whirlwind that was threatening.

The only good thing of the whole ordeal, Lassiter thought as he sat in the ER waiting room, was that he still had his job and possibly a commendation coming. He had been almost too shocked to speak when Chief Nolan arrived at his nephews' house, gritted his teeth, and turned away from them, instead locating his assistant chief and informing him that he'd been sent on a wild goose chase by Chris, and that he'd arrived back at the station and caught Detective Benny Ross in his office, printing out information about both Juliet and Shawn. Lassiter had demanded to know if he'd been aware of what Chris and Leo had been doing, and when the chief shook his head, Lassiter believed him; he was still an asshole for not caring that much that several people had been hurt just because they were gay, but at least he wasn't a conspiring asshole, and he wasn't trying to cover up what had happened now that it was over. Lassiter told him what had happened most of the way Shawn had suggested, trying to keep as many details out as he felt he could, just in case something wouldn't add up later. Maybe he could chalk it up to stress—it wasn't every day that he killed two men, one of them his own officer, and almost saw his— _them_ —killed. 

“Those two,” the chief said, nodding toward the ambulance that was just pulling out of the driveway with Shawn and Juliet aboard. “You know them?”

Lassiter lifted his chin and looked at him steadily. “Yes, sir,” he said. “They're friends of mine. You should also be aware that Juliet O'Hara is a detective with the police department in Santa Barbara, California.”

Chief Nolan raised his eyebrows a little. “Where you're from.”

“Yes. She was my partner.”

“Mmm.” He gazed at the garage, where the doors had been raised and the photographers had been set loose. “Go on, then.”

“Sir?”

“My family kept a lot of things under wraps, Carlton. Keeping yourself to yourself is not necessarily a bad way to learn, growing up, but sometimes it is. The other part of it is that you take care of your own. I'm taking control of this scene—you go see to your friends. I'll expect your full report on my desk tomorrow by oh-nine-hundred. Think you can handle that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Chief Nolan nodded, and then he jerked his head toward the car Lassiter and Juliet had come in. “Then git.”

So he had gotten, and here he was, staring at a Styrofoam cup of coffee that he didn't want, turning it around and around in his hands so that they would have something to do. There was a lot they could be doing—making notes for his report, for one—but he was waiting for the nurse that was helping a doctor stitch Shawn's latest injury to tell him that he could go in. The coffee was cold, but he sipped it rhythmically anyway. Spin, spin, spin, spin, sip. Spin, spin, spin, spin, sip... same, same, same, same, Arrrrrrby's is different. _Great_ , he thought, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. He was starting to space off and think random, nonsensical crap just like Shawn. The little shit just got into a person's head. And under his skin. And inside him in all sorts of other ways. 

The door opened and the doctor walked by without looking at him, but the nurse that followed met his expectant gaze, and she nodded, holding the door open. “You can go in, Chief Lassiter.”

He didn't correct her because he didn't care, not even for the sound of that. He was up and in the room in an instant, almost slamming the door behind him. Juliet was in a chair next to the exam table, holding a cup with a straw so that Shawn could sip from it. They both looked at him, nobody smiling. Everyone was tired, but although Juliet and Shawn looked tired and relieved, Lassiter was tired and almost sick with frustration, almost out of his mind with _both_ of them.

He held his hands out. “Well?” he demanded.

Shawn blinked, and then he looked at Juliet, wary. “I was right,” she said softly. “Just five stitches and some very minor abrasions. We can leave as soon as they get his discharge papers ready.”

“Goody,” Lassiter spat. “Peachy. Fucking _corking_.”

Shawn mouthed 'corking' at Juliet, and then he sighed. “Mad Lassie is mad,” he said.

“It's okay, Carlton,” Juliet said carefully. “Unless—the chief—?”

He flapped a hand at her. “Not a problem. Shockingly enough, Spencer's magic luck prevails again. We all get shot at, two men die, and all that happens is he gets grazed and we're all back home in time for ice cream and sprinkles.”

Shawn perked up. “There are sprinkles? No one told me there were sprinkles on the table.”

“Shawn,” Juliet scolded. “Calm down, Carlton. I've already told him that what he did was beyond reckless.”

“That's true, she did, I'm all out of recks for the foreseeable future,” Shawn said. Lassiter glared at him, and he sighed. “Lassie, if you're going to be mad at me every time I do something stupid, I'm going to get really tired of reintroducing myself.”

Lassiter pointed at him. “This is _not_ funny. Do not downplay this into a stupid joke about how you get to do whatever foolish thing you want and everyone's just supposed to brush it off because you're a laugh and a half.”

Shawn scowled, and Lassiter was glad to see it—at least he wasn't hurt too badly to defend himself against a reprimand. “It's called deflection,” he said. “Hi, I'm Shawn Spencer, I use humor to take the edge off serious situations.” He switched to a lower, gruffer voice. “Hi, I'm Sassy Lassie, I can't ever let things go.”

“Let things go?” Lassiter repeated, disbelieving. “After what happened to you not one full day ago, we for _some_ inexplicable reason follow you and your asinine ideas, only to find you with a gun pointed at you _again_? And then you stand up and call yourself a _target_ so that a madman can have a free shot at you?” He was shouting, and should probably lower his voice, but didn't want to. Possibly couldn't. Actually didn't care.

“He missed!” Shawn glanced down at the short line of stitches on his shoulder. “Almost!”

”You could have easily been killed!”

”He was going to hurt Jules!” Shawn retorted, a little color coming back into his face now. ”I was distracting him so you could get him, and it worked, I think!”

“Are you sure you think?” Lassiter snapped. “Of _all_ the stupid things you come up with—”

”That wasn't even me, I learned that from the Doctor.”

“You are not Dr. Strangelove! _Or_ Dr. Feelgood, or _any_ doctor!”

“No, no, not me. I learned it _from_ the Doctor.”

” _What_ Doctor? Doctor _who_?”

Shawn nodded. ”Exactly.”

Lassiter turned to Juliet. ”Has he been eating strange things off the floor again? What is he even talking about?”

”Doctor Who,” she sighed. Lassiter stared at her, and she shrugged. “It's... the name of a TV show about a lunatic with a hero complex who fights monsters and saves his companions repeatedly. You saw him watching it the other day—you called it 'scifi bile'.”

”Oh my god.” Lassiter closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. ”Jesus Christ, Shawn. You can't take life lessons from _Doctor Who_.”

”Hey, don't push your beliefs on me, Lassie,” Shawn said indignantly. ”There are lots of great life lessons on Doctor Who, like how to be bigger on the inside and that everyone should sleep with Captain Jack.” Lassiter looked back up at him again, jaw clenched, too exasperated and furious and frustrated with him to speak. Shawn saw this and sighed. “Will you chill, please? You're going to Hulk through your suit. It's over and everyone's fine.”

“ _This_ time you're fine! And you're not even fine—you were shot at, and you almost died.”

“Normally I'd be the first one to jump on that train, trying to get out of chores and crap and saying my arm hurt too much to get myself off, but less than six stitches is barely a battle scar, one I'd take seventy-eight times if it stopped that asshole from hurting Jules even once,” he said firmly. “She's okay, and that's all I care about. Come on, man, you _know_ me. This is nothing compared to some of the shit I've pulled before, we all know that. I'm not downplaying it—it was a stupid thing to do, I agree, but I'm not sorry, because it worked out. So what is your problem, really? Why are you _this_ mad at me?”

_Because I love you!_

Lassiter could only look at Shawn, feeling his stomach sink again, feeling like he wasn't standing on anything substantial at all anymore. He knew his eyes were too wide and that he'd almost stopped breathing, but he couldn't seem to start again. He looked at Juliet, whose face was pale and tired, her nose bruised and swollen, her lips chapped and bitten, her eyes full of concern—for him. _And I love you_ , he thought, and couldn't help shaking his head slightly, trying to deny it. But he couldn't. He was starting to tremble, something he _never_ did, and he could feel his heart jerking around like a jackrabbit in a trap.

“It's okay, Carlton,” she said softly. “Shawn's right—it's over. You know what we do now, as cops. We move on.”

“No,” he said, and then he was turning on his heel, out of the small examining room, out of the hallway, out of the hospital. He tried to take long, deep breaths, but the humidity outside was smothering him and his head hurt. His head was smothering him and every part of him hurt. This wasn't over, and there could be no moving on, not from this realization. He wasn't just falling in love with them, it had already happened. He loved them, both of them. He was ass over applecart, flying over the moon, flinging himself off a cliff in love with them: Juliet and Shawn were more important to him than anything in the entire world, and he was just someone they were fucking on the side.

_Now what?_


	16. Negative Space

Shawn looked at Jules and she looked back at him, neither of them speaking after Lassie practically ran out of the room. “We have a problem, don't we?” he asked finally.

Slowly, she nodded. “I think we do.”

 _And it's me_ , he thought, laying his head down on the table and closing his eyes. “Damn,” he muttered. “I don't want there to be a problem.”

“I don't either,” she said softly. “But... I guess we all knew this would come sooner or later.”

“I was really, really hoping for later.” Or never, but like _that_ would have ever been an option, especially now that he'd fucked everything up. He wouldn't take it back, not even if he'd had the chance, because the memory of that asshole holding a gun on Juliet was still far too fresh, far too scary even in the well-lit exam room at the hospital, but the look on Lassiter's face when he'd come over to them had been beyond furious. The way he'd looked at them just now before simply walking out of the room and leaving them. Shawn met Juliet's eyes, and when she gave him her hand, he squeezed it. “We're going home, aren't we?”

She didn't answer, but she didn't need to.

.

Juliet found Carlton outside half an hour later, leaning against the door of his car, his arms folded and his head down. He hadn't left, then, he was at least going to give them a ride back to his house. That was good. He'd just needed to get away from them—not so good. She sighed, and slowly walked up to him, stopping when she was sure he knew she was there.

“Shawn's signing his discharge papers,” she said quietly. “Would it be all right if you bring the car around for him?”

He nodded, not looking at her, and he turned, opened the car door, and slid in. She looked at him for a long moment, and then she turned and went back into the hospital. When she asked Shawn if he wanted to sit in the front, as there was more leg room and it would be more comfortable, he shook his head at once. An orderly brought Shawn out in a wheelchair, something he normally would have enjoyed, but his expression was glum now, and he sighed heavily when Carlton pulled up to the curb and just waited, not looking at either of them. 

Juliet helped Shawn into the car and the orderly took the wheelchair back inside; she wanted to get into the back seat with him, but no matter how much she was dreading the conversation that was clearly coming, she had made it her personal outlook on life to straighten her back and do what needed to be done, personal issues aside. Carlton had taught her that as a detective. He had taught her almost everything she knew about that job, and he was the reason she was as good as she was. She felt a little better during the completely silent ride back to his house, knowing that she would always have that.

She felt much worse when Carlton put his car in park in his driveway, but didn't turn it off, or look at either of them. “Go on inside and rest,” he said, his voice dry and flat. “I'll be back in a little while.”

Juliet wanted to ask where he was going—to the station was a good bet, but she somehow didn't think that was it—but something told her not to, that he was holding onto his neutral mood by his fingernails. “All right,” she said quietly. She got out and opened Shawn's door for him, giving him a stern look to not say anything, which he thankfully obeyed. She unlocked the front door of Carlton's house with the key he'd given her when they'd first arrived for this long visit, and he was backing out onto the street and driving away before they were inside. 

She closed the door and met Shawn's eyes; he looked exhausted and forlorn, completely clashing with the bright green shirt he'd put on that morning, which had been partly cut away so that the place where the bullet had zinged him could be stitched.

“Should we get started packing?” he asked after a moment. “I'm going to need a while to find all of my crap and all of the notes I left last time. Guess I should put the books and stuff back, too.”

She thought about it; it was the logical thing to do, but every part of her balked at the idea of erasing their presence from this place. “Not yet,” she said. “Maybe it's not that bad.”

“The look on his face was pretty bad,” Shawn said quietly. “I think we both know what that means. He's done with us. Of my shit and probably of your supporting my shit.”

“That's conjecture, not conclusive evidence,” she argued. “Maybe—maybe it's just too much right now, and he just needs a break from all of the personal excitement.”

“A break.” Shawn looked doubtful. “Because that worked so well for Ross and Rachel.”

She smiled a little and poked him in the chest. “They didn't have a Chandler. Come on, I'll make you something to eat.”

He sighed. “Not hungry.”

Juliet stopped on her way to the kitchen and looked back at him incredulously. “You,” she said. “Not hungry.”

He reconsidered, following her and leaning against the counter while she opened the fridge and surveyed its contents. “I guess I wouldn't say no to a grilled cheese,” he said finally. “At least then I can say later that my heart is afire due to the grease.”

That was a good point. Juliet got out the margarine and cheese and began slathering slices of bread.

.

Lassiter went to a bar but didn't drink, not much. He ordered a beer but was irritating the bartender by leaving it mostly untouched as he stared through the TV in the corner, not seeing it or hearing it. He had no idea what to do now, and all of his thinking kept going in circles. No matter how many times he set a train of thought in motion, it led him back to them, and not knowing what they would think or what they would want. They had obviously noticed that something was wrong, but neither had asked about it or had said anything at all. 

Something had to give—he had at least come to the conclusion that he could no longer continue with their arrangement as it had been. His revelation in the emergency room had seemed to have frozen his mind but boiled his insides, and the two were stalemated. The next course of action really came down to a pair of choices, and what was mostly twisting him up right now was that he wasn't going to be the one to decide. No, he was just going to be the one to force the decision, and wait, and hope. But not very much, because he was a pragmatist, and this had already gone farther than he ever would have believed. Farther than it should have—it was just supposed to be sex, possibly friendship.

No one had said anything about falling in love.

He stood up and threw some money on the bar next to his half-full beer mug, and then he drove back to his house slowly, rehearsing what he would say but having absolutely no idea what would happen after that. That was probably best, because he couldn't see any way that they wouldn't be gone within the next day or so—gone from his house, gone from his life. And that was also probably for the best, no matter how much it felt like the worst.


	17. Three-Part Harmony

  
_You're not the first to think that everything has been thought before_  
_I spoke to an echo and he said, 'I'm not satisfied, I want something more'_  
_'Cause I am bored with three dimensions_  
_I'm in love with three dimensions_  
—Something For Kate, “[Three Dimensions](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gECEO2HXewk)”

  
Juliet and Shawn were on the sofa, watching a rerun of How I Met Your Mother, one of their favorite shows and one that was actually helping to cheer them up. “I want Barney to be my _best friend_ ,” Shawn said, actually grinning at Neil Patrick Harris with pink hair and a ridiculous list of tasks to perform.

“Ohhhh no,” Juliet said. “I'm not cleaning up _the Earth_ after that. And what about Gus?” she added, surprised.

“Barney is my _fictional_ best friend,” Shawn clarified. “And Gus would probably like hanging out with Ted, since they're both giant nerds that are always trying to stop our fun.”

When Carlton returned, he came inside, closed the door, and looked at them. Juliet could feel Shawn slump a little next to her, but they were both looking back at him. 

“I need to talk to both of you,” Carlton said. “Please turn that off.” Once Juliet had done so, he seemed to think for a moment before he sat in his armchair, facing them as if he was getting ready to have a limb severed. “We have a problem,” he said.

Juliet and Shawn looked at each other, her calmly, him a little afraid and a little pouty. “We know,” Shawn said.

“It wasn't that difficult to figure out that something was wrong,” Juliet said. She was disappointed, but of course, this couldn't last forever. Not that they had ever, ever talked about it—not that any of them had ever mentioned the future other than a next visit, never years down the line, or what might become of them and their precarious arrangement. They had all been holding on to what they had, not wanting to consider it falling apart. “It's okay,” she went on, unhappy but unsurprised. “We understand.”

Instead of looking relieved, Carlton looked confused. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Shawn mumbled, leaning forward and putting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. “I'm a doofus liability and Jules is too hot to handle. It happens. Why do you think I have the oven mitts? Because I'm so good at baking?”

Juliet gave him a look to stop his babbling, and returned her attention to Carlton, who was frowning. “We understand if you want to stop... stop seeing us. We understand that you need stability, and that you didn't understand this way of living from the start. No hard feelings—we can part as friends.”

Carlton just looked at her, and then at Shawn, and then back at her. “That wasn't what I was going to say at all,” he said. “Is that—is that what _you_ want?”

“No,” Shawn said, raising his head. He looked at Juliet and she frowned, not understanding why his eyes were bright and he'd seemed to stop breathing. He looked back at Carlton. “What were you going to say?” he asked, in a rush, and then she recognized his tone: hope.

“The problem,” Carlton said, very slowly, “is with me.” He seemed to be having trouble pushing the words out, and they waited, giving him time. “The problem... is that I love you,” he said. “Both of you.” He looked at Juliet, whose mouth had dropped open slightly. “Juliet, I love you,” he said, and she saw how serious he was, that he was prepared for this to go any of a thousand ways, that he was throwing himself to them and letting be what would be. Letting go of his control and giving it to them, because he absolutely meant it. “I love how clever you are,” he was saying. “How you handle your weapons when you have them, and how you fight the world with your bare hands when you don't. I love how you don't take any undue crap from anyone, least of all Shawn and myself; you've always had my back, even when I've been an ass. You were the best partner I've ever had, and will ever have. _You_ are my partner, Juliet. You never stopped being my partner.”

“Carlton,” she said, she whispered, because she only had a small amount of air that hadn't been sucked from the room.

He shook his head at her, slowly, and then his eyes flicked to Shawn, who also looked completely stunned. “Shawn,” he said.

“That's my name, don't wear it out,” he replied automatically, but there was not a trace of a smile on his face.

“Shawn,” Carlton repeated, very softly. “I love you. I love how you see things—the world, and people, and me. I love your stupid jokes and your everlasting mouth and how excited you are when cases are puzzling, how excited you are when you find a quarter on the ground or a piece of candy you forgot about. I love how you shake your leg to rock yourself to sleep when you're tired but your mind won't slow down, and how you relax when I put my arms around you. I love how you put your hands on my neck to kiss me, how much you care about everything. How you make me feel.” He stopped, and held his hands up, looking at them, dropping them. He tried to smile, but it died and he looked lost. “I'm in love with both of you.”

It was completely silent for a long moment, and then—“Oh _shit_ ,” Shawn said, his eyes goggling. “You—you really mean that.”

“Yes.” Carlton looked between them again, and shook his head. “The problem...” he said again, “...is that I need either a lot more, or a lot less of the two of you, because now... I don't think I can go on the way it is. For the last year we've all been together once, maybe twice a month. It's not enough, not anymore. And...” Now he dropped his gaze, looking at a spot on the floor that wasn't quite their feet, before looking back up and meeting their eyes. “I understand that you two are the couple. You've been together for two years now. You have a home, and lives, that you share together. I'm the outsider and I always have been. That was the deal from the start. And that was okay, at the start, but now... now that I...” He seemed unable to go on, and looked between them helplessly. “What do we do?” he asked, almost too quietly to hear. “I'll be okay with whatever you want.”

Juliet and Shawn looked at each other, instantly knowing what the other thought. She raised her eyebrows slightly, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. She asked him with her eyes, and he answered with his.

“Okay, you two have to stop doing that,” Carlton said, much louder now. They looked at him, both questioning, and they both started to grin when they saw his faintly irritated look. He sounded much more like himself now, less anxious and apparently ready to be heartbroken and lonely again. 

“Doing what?” Juliet asked.

“Talking without talking,” Carlton said. “I don't know what the hell you're doing. It's really annoying.”

“If you're expecting us to stop being annoying, I think you might be S.O.L.,” Shawn said. “I majored in annoying.”

“You didn't go to college,” Juliet reminded him.

“Didn't have to to major in annoying.”

“That's true.” Juliet looked at Carlton. “He's not going to stop being annoying. Neither am I, actually. We're kind of like that.”

Carlton was watching them, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Okay,” he said slowly. “You two do realize that none of that answers my question.”

“It doesn't?” Juliet asked. He looked at her, and she smiled, feeling lighter and happier than she had in a long time.

“Why is it a question?” Shawn asked.

Carlton looked at him. “What?”

“It might be difficult, very difficult at times,” Juliet mused. “Especially with our jobs, and the way people can be. They wouldn't understand, and it could become a minefield.”

“How about a pinefield?” Shawn suggested. “It's still hazardous and sharp, but it smells better.”

Carlton was clearly trying to be patient as he listened to them, but the way he was tapping one finger against his leg told them that he was getting agitated that no one had come right out and told him what was happening yet. He almost certainly knew, or hoped, but he'd also been well on the way to trying to convince himself to let them go and get over them. He waited until they were both looking at him, and then he took a deep breath. “Please don't make this any more difficult for me,” he said quietly. 

“Lassie,” Shawn said.

“What.”

“We love you too.”

Carlton raised his head, looking at him, at Juliet, at both of them quickly. “You—what? Since when?”

Shawn looked at her and she nodded, confirming that she knew, and that he could say. “Since, like... 2007,” he said slowly. “ _Lassie_. At—at your going-away party. When I tried to kiss you and you almost knocked me into the next decade.”

“I'm sorry for that,” Carlton said quickly.

Shawn shook his head—he wasn't finished. “After that. I drank way too much and Gus hauled me outside, and I threw up in the parking lot and he made me sit against the car while he got me some water.” He let out a breath that was half a laugh. “And I told him... that I was sad you were going because I thought I might be in love with you. And he didn't tell me I was being stupid, or that I didn't know what I was talking about, or even to shut up and drink my water. He didn't say anything. Because he'd already seen it.” Shawn shrugged, looking solemnly at Carlton, whose eyes were wide, his mouth dropped open.

“I... I am so sorry,” he said weakly. “I didn't know.”

Shawn flipped up a hand and waved it off. “I know. It's not a thing. But remember how Jules kissed you then. Remember how she instantly got you back to our place when she saw you in that bar. It was her that got all of this started, but not with that—by convincing me to drop everyone else, and to tell you the truth. I didn't want to do either of those things. Not because I didn't want you, but because my belly is yeller. Why do you think I get along with Siddy so well?” He shrugged again. “I'm part Fraidy Cat. But Jules isn't—she knows what she wants, and for a long time that's been you, too. We love you, Clueless Bunny.” Shawn grinned. “I'm calling you that, by the way. You can't stop me.”

“I bet I can,” Carlton said after a moment. “I still have handcuffs.”

“Ooh.” Shawn quirked an eyebrow, and then returned to his happy smile. “I'm pretty sure this has been a long time coming,” he said, glancing at Juliet again. She nodded, and he nodded back, satisfied. “I mean... when I came here myself, I thought... well, from the start, really.” He looked a little uncertain, and when he looked at Carlton, he nodded too, slowly. Shawn grinned again. “Yeah,” he said. “So... is that all things answered? I mean, if we all want, which I know I'm on board, and Jules is too. We're going to all be... a thing? Together?”

“I don't know what that means,” Carlton said. 

“Obviously you do, otherwise you wouldn't have suggested 'more' as an option.”

Carlton looked at Juliet. “Is that possible?” he asked, looking afraid and hopeful at once. “Do people really do that? To be—three? What do you even call that?”

“I think we call it 'us',” she said, still smiling. “And yes, people do it all the time. Not many, and it's not usually socially accepted, so it needs to be a secret, especially if we want to keep our jobs. But if we want, we can.”

“Hey, I'm a psychic,” Shawn said. “I'm beyond this world. I do what I want.”

“You have to stop doing what you want,” Carlton told him. “I can't... consider this... if you're literally going to land in the hospital every other day. I can't handle somebody that I love willy-nilly throwing himself into so much unnecessary danger. Seeing you hurt like that...” He shook his head, cutting himself off.

Shawn nodded. “Deal. I'll seriously try. And one for you.” He glanced at Juliet again to confirm something else before looking back at Carlton. “Is there any possible way you can Hail Mary, full of grace, get your ass out of this goddamn place? Can you come back?”

Carlton looked surprised. “Back to Santa Barbara?” 

“Yes,” Juliet said. “Carlton, this place is so bad for you. You're not happy—we've seen that for months, and it's gotten especially awful in the last few weeks.”

“Not just over the assault case,” Shawn added. “These people suck, and so not in the good way.” He made a face. “And it's _humid_ here. If my skin is going to be sticky I'm at least going to have to get a little fun out of it.”

“I... don't know if I can transfer just like that,” Carlton said slowly. “But I could try.” He nodded. “I would like to come back to California. I would like to be there... with both of you.”

“Then we're going to all be together?” Juliet asked. “As in, serious-relationship together?”

He looked like he very much wanted to say yes, but there was still a frown on his face, and his fingers were squeezing his thighs where his hands lay in his lap. “How would that work? How _could_ that work?”

“However we wanted it to.”

“I still need snake balloons and an air horn, but I can improvise if need be,” Shawn said. “But Jules is right—people make it work. They just have to figure out what they want, and then do that. If we wanted to be three people in a couple—“ He paused, and then squinted at Juliet. “Throuple?” She shook her head. “Couple-ree?” She made a face, and then a see-sawing motion with her hand.

“In poker, what comes next is three-of-a-kind,” Carlton said. 

“Too gangly,” Shawn said. “And then we'd have to figure out which cards were are. I'm obviously the Joker.” He paused, titling his head. “Maybe Jules is the deuce, because she's wild, and Lassy can be the ace.” He nodded a little as he thought, and then waved again. “We'll come up with something. But that sounds good to me. The rest is just details.”

“Details are important.”

“Do we need to figure them all out before you'll say that you want this?” Juliet asked quietly. 

Carlton still looked troubled. “No...”

“You were ready to let us go,” she said. “We don't want to let you go. You said 'more _or_ less'. We want more. Like what we have with each other... only you too.”

“You really think that's going to work?” he asked, his voice even. 

“Yes,” she said.

“Don't care,” Shawn said. “I mean, yes,” he added, when Juliet gave him a look quickly. “What I mean is that I know what I want to do. I think most of your reluctance here is because of how _all_ of your previous relationships have gone, but.” He shrugged. “That's not us. Maybe this is what you need.”

Carlton just looked at him for a long moment, and then, finally, he started to smile. “Maybe.”

“Would you rather try, or not try?” Shawn held up both of his hands, and slightly moved his left. “Alone, and sad, and nookie-less. And in _Georgia_.” He made a face, and then brandished a big grin and wiggled the fingers of his right hand. “Or lots and lots of sex and love and happiness and California and California Raisins and California Dreamin' and California... relationships,” he finished, as Juliet raised her eyebrows at him again.

“Can I have the right hand without the Raisins?” Carlton asked. Juliet grinned and nodded, unable to speak because she was too relieved and glad.

“Yup.” Shawn mimed throwing something over his shoulder. “They're gone, but I'm adding California king size bed.”

“That's actually narrower than a standard king,” Carlton said. “I checked when I got the new one in there.”

Shawn blinked. “It is? Rip-off. Is there anything bigger?”

“Yes, but they're not standard.”

“So? _We're_ not standard.”

Carlton smiled again. “I suppose that's true.”

“Sweet, so that's settled.” Shawn stood, and held out his right hand. “All for one and all for bed. Come on, bring it in.”

Juliet stood up and laid her hand over his, and they both looked at Carlton, both smiling. “Are you joining us?” she asked softly.

He slowly got his feet and came over to them, looking at her, looking at Shawn. They waited. Carlton let out a long, slow breath, and then he laid his hand on top of Juliet's. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

Shawn beamed. “See, I was right. Shules and Lassie become Shassiet.”

Carlton looked at him, but his exasperation was miniscule. “You're still an idiot.”

Shawn grinned. “I love you too, Lassie. I really do.”

Carlton looked at Juliet, and her stomach felt a little weak when she saw how soft his eyes went when they found hers. “Juliet,” he said, and hearing her name like that from him was so right. “I love you,” he said, and she stepped into his embrace. She felt his hand drop from hers as he put one arm around her back and held his other arm out for Shawn, who also stepped closer to him. Carlton put an arm around his back as well, and then Shawn put his right hand on the back of Carlton's neck, leaned forward, and kissed him deeply. “Shawn,” he sighed, when they broke apart. 

“This is a mad huddle, but I can't help but suggest we move it into the bedroom,” Shawn said softly.

“Agreed,” Juliet breathed, pressing her lips into Carlton's neck. 

He looked at Shawn again. “How's your shoulder?”

“I might need you to kiss it and make it better.” Shawn grinned again and licked his lips. “Do you want to be in the middle, Lassie?”

Carlton smiled. “I want to be with the two of you,” he said. “However you want. It doesn't matter, as long as you'll have me.”

“We will _definitely_ have you,” Juliet said.

“In all kinds of exciting ways,” Shawn added. He looked at Juliet and tilted his head, and when she grinned at him and nodded, knowing each other and agreeing without a word, Carlton just kept his smile on and followed them.


	18. The...No, Not End...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, beautiful friends. Many thanks to everyone that's been following this, and huge thanks to people who have left comments and encouragements. I can't say how happy I am that some people have liked this fic; their story very much continues in the next part, so look for that soon :)
> 
> If you like, you can stream the soundtrack for this fic [here](http://8tracks.com/acasofthousands/duck-you) @8tracks.

Juliet and Shawn stayed for another week and a half, which were the best eleven days of Lassiter's entire life. He walked around half-dazed, half-sore, and always, always wanting more. Juliet got on top of him and rode him for nearly an hour one night while Shawn was cuffed to the headboard, unable to move or to touch himself or to do anything except whine and whimper and wiggle his hard, leaking cock in the air at nothing. Shawn had fucked him until he came not once, or twice, but four times throughout the rest of their stay, and the feeling as he'd finally been able to let go and let them have him over and over was nothing but bliss. Losing control had never felt so good, been so desirable, and it wasn't just the sex—he loved them more than anything in the world, and hearing and seeing that they loved him too was more than coming home, more than belonging. It was right, it was perfect. He was full to bursting with them, his body, his heart, his mind, and he still couldn't get enough of them—their tastes, their eyes, the sound of their laughter and of their breathing while they were all touching and holding and together.

Together: no official term for what they were going to be, for what they were, just them as they knew each other. Lassiter had asked if their new arrangement was that he was dating a couple, or if it was an equilateral triangle, and Shawn had insisted they call themselves an isosceles triangle until Juliet had pointed out that that meant only two sides were equal—as if they were a couple and Lassiter would just be between them, like he had asked, and Shawn had vetoed that at once.

“I just like the way that sounds, _isosceles_.” He'd shrugged, lying on his back on the bed next to Lassiter. “But no, I don't like that. I guess the official story is still going to have to be that me and Jules are boyfriend-girlfriend—you'll be like a silent partner, Lassie. Completely in it, but only we know.”

“I agree,” Juliet said, sitting up between them but facing them, naked. “To us, you and Shawn will have both a girlfriend and a boyfriend, and I'll have two boyfriends.”

“Slut,” Shawn said.

“Look who's talking.” She smiled at him. “And I guess that means I won't be sleeping with you tonight then.”

“Good thing you have someone else to fall back on,” Lassiter told her, and then looked innocently at Shawn when he stuck out his lower lip.

“You're not a slut, Lassie,” he said. “You're a stud.”

Juliet affected an offended look. “I can't be a stud?”

“Hmm, I dunno,” Shawn said, tilting his head. “Maybe you should mount me.”

Taking them to the airport so that they could go back to Santa Barbara without him had been horrible, and the first day alone had been even worse; he was more dispirited and dejected and aching without them than he ever would have imagined. Juliet called him every day, and Shawn texted him random, nonsensical factoids and thoughts and pictures of Guster with horns and a beard drawn on, with the caption “its windsday and gusty!” but it wasn't enough. Lassiter trudged through work, where almost all of the police force still glared at him and whispered behind his back about what had gone down with the Nolans, even though the chief had made the official statement and told the papers without rancor that his nephews had been behind some terrible attacks all over the city in the last several months. Juliet and Shawn had been absolutely right, of course—this place wasn't for him anymore. If it had ever been, which he doubted. 

He wanted to go back to Santa Barbara more than anything, not just to be with them, but to be back in his element, back on familiar territory and dealing with the police department and the political dynamics he knew. He knew he would do whatever it took to make that happen, but in his mind he was troubled, because he hadn't been hedging when Shawn had asked if he could transfer back—he really didn't know if he could. It wasn't like you got to pick and choose where you went, whenever you wanted. As he sat in his empty, silent house, holding his phone and Chief Vick's number keyed into the dialer, he hoped. Something close, anything, to be close to them, to be back where he belonged.

“To transfer back?” Vick asked ten minutes later, surprised. “Any particular reason?”

“I'm just considering some options,” he said. “The climate here doesn't appear to be agreeing with me.” Understatement of the year, possibly—that or the idea that he was slightly lonely. “I'd just like to inquire as to whether you thought it might be on the table for me to come back to Santa Barbara.”

There was a long pause. “I need to ask you if this would have anything to do with Detective O'Hara,” Vick said.

“No,” he said at once, and then cringed, realizing he'd spoken too vehemently. Of course Vick knew about everything that had happened with the Nolans—that Juliet and Shawn had been in Lassiter's new city, staying _with_ him when all of it went down. Vick didn't reply, and he knew he had to do some damage control or she would be forced to assume they were too personally involved to make it a good idea for them to be in the same department. “To be perfectly blunt, Chief, it's true that O'Hara and I are friends,” he said carefully. “I hold her in the highest regard as a fellow officer, and she understands how seriously I take police work.” He paused for effect. “And while I still have little to no use for Spencer's wild claims, I respect O'Hara completely and her personal relationships are of no consequence to me. I had a good professional relationship with her while on the job.”

“Hmm,” Vick said. “Be that as it may, we don't have room in the budget for an assistant chief job. And not to sound rude, but I don't think we really need one.”

“I understand,” he said, but stopped there, because showing too much how badly he wanted to be any part of their department again was a bad idea.

Vick was quiet, thoughtful. “And our Head Detective job has gone to someone else since you transferred away, of course.”

Lassiter made a face at that—Juliet had of course told him that Gates had gotten it. He certainly wouldn't have been Lassiter's choice—no, that would have gone to Juliet, if not for her unfortunately slim (at least compared to Lassiter's own) arrest record and her few short years of experience—but he held his tongue, hoping that his recollection of Karen Vick wasn't off by the least inch, and that hers wasn't off about him.

“Well, we certainly miss you, Carlton,” she said at last. “I can't say that the department has suffered... but I also can't say that I haven't wished you were around a time or two in the last year. We have two new detectives that could stand to follow your example, and you were always one of the best I've ever worked with.”

His heart was going again, too fast, to make up for the skipped beats in the last several minutes. “Thank you, Chief.”

“It would be a sizable pay cut,” she said. “But if you were willing to come back on as a detective, I think I can pull some strings and make that happen. You would, of course, not be partnered with Detective O'Hara, and I don't need to tell you why.”

“I understand,” he said seriously, though he was starting to smile. He leaned back in his chair, feeling as if he could breathe again. Half an hour later he was perusing realtor websites, looking for someone to help sell this house, a line from an old Led Zeppelin song smoothly going around in his head. _Made up my mind to make a new start, going to California with an aching in my heart..._

.

**JULY 2009**

  
Gus shook his head in disbelief as Shawn finished telling him (almost) everything that had happened during his and Jules' last (hopefully forever) trip to Macon. “Chief Vick already rammed through his transfer, and he's going to be back at the SPBD in two weeks,” Shawn said. “He's selling his stupid house in stupid Macon and finishing up packing while Jules is out right now, looking for an apartment for him. Talk about being wrapped up in a neat little package. I might even put a bow on, though I'm not going to say where.”

“So that's how this is going to go down?” Gus asked skeptically, ignoring that last. “You and Jules and Lassiter... you're just all going to be... a thing?”

Shawn grinned. “Yep. A big thing.” He winked. “I'm talking _big_ , Gus.”

Gus winced. “Shawn, my previous points remain. All of them, but primarily my 'Gus Doesn't Want To Hear About Shawn Having Sex' rule.”

“So you don't want to read my 'How I Spent My Summer Vacation' essay I'm sending in to Polyamory Parade magazine?”

“Eww,” Gus said, and then paused. “That's not a real magazine.”

“It's not?” Shawn frowned thoughtfully at the big window in the office. “It should be. How much does it cost to start publication?”

“More than seventeen dollars and a box of Dunkaroos.”

“Damn. As if I'd part with my Dunkaroos.” It was quiet for several minutes, Shawn gazing out of the window and Gus working on his laptop, typing like he was a three-year-old on a powdered doughnut high. When he realized that the sound had stopped suddenly, Shawn glanced over at Gus, and saw that he was studying him. He raised his eyebrows, and Gus shook his head again.

“I still think you must be out of your damn mind,” he said. “Juliet too. And no, not just because it's Lassiter. He's obviously out of his mind as well.”

“It was the Georgian humidity,” Shawn said. “Addled everyone. My brain swelled up so much at one point that I ate a Brussels sprout and washed the dishes.”

“But if this is really what you want,” Gus went on, ignoring him, “then I'm happy for you.”

Shawn blinked, saw that his best friend meant it, and grinned. “Really? Thanks, buddy. I'm happy for you too—here I was, telling you that you could never pull off that jacket, but here you are, grabbing life with both hands. I learned to be all I can be from you.” He paused thoughtfully. “And the Army.”

Gus snorted. “Like the Army would have you.”

“The MCRmy would have, if I would have been able to stop laughing at their outfits. And if I liked their music.”

“Uh huh.” Gus shrugged. “It takes all kinds, I guess. I'm not going to say at least I hope you know what you're doing, because you never have and you never will. But you're really happy right now—like walking on air happy, like new flavor of Kit Kat happy—so I'm happy for you. I've only ever seen you like this once in your whole life, and that was when Jules said she loved you and you pretty much decided you wanted to be with her for the foreseeable future.” He paused, and looked questioning. “That's what it is, then? The three of you are, like... all in love with each other? Actual, serious... in love, relationship-style?”

“Yep,” Shawn said, feeling a large and stupid grin stretch his face at the thought of it. “That's what it is. This is better than a new flavor of Kit Kat, man. This is...” He couldn't even think of something stupid to say in comparison, because there wasn't anything. How strange was that? When had that ever happened before? When had this—this total feeling of things being right and balanced and perfect—ever happened before, ever? “Everything,” he said finally. “It's everything.” He let his breath out and there was a small hitch in it as the feeling in his chest rose, full and trembling, and he didn't even care that Gus was staring at him, because that was the purest truth he'd ever given in his entire life. Everything.

“You all are twisted,” Gus said finally. “Strange. Messed up. But that was before all of this, so... have fun.”

Shawn laughed and leaned back in his chair, tossing up a football and catching it while Gus flipped on the TV and settled on some cartoons. Gus went back to work, Shawn went back to doing nothing, and Elmer Fudd stalked Bugs Bunny through an animated forest while the stinker of all stinkers perched at the edge of his hole and told him it was actually duck-hunting season. 

Daffy Duck came over, irate, putting his hands on his hips and determined not to be outdone. “It's wabbit season!”

“Duck season,” Bugs said.

“Wabbit season!” Daffy insisted. 

Shawn laughed through the rest of the scene just like he had probably a billion times as a kid, and then he got out his phone to text Jules. _Be vewy vewy quiet im hunting lassie._

Twenty minutes later, he had a picture reply: an apartment not that far from theirs and Juliet holding a set of keys in front of the door. _He'll be in our sights right here._

“Target acquired,” Shawn murmured.

.

**AUGUST 2009**  


  
Juliet handed Carlton the keys for his new apartment and the rental agreement that she'd picked up from the realtor and he put them aside with barely a glance; he'd trusted her to find him somewhere to live that was going to be little more than a place to get his mail and to put on official forms, as he was going to be spending quite a lot of his time with them, and when she called him to say she thought she'd found one he would like, he'd told her to have them fax him the forms to sign to give her the power to set it all up. “It's a little small,” she said, “but it has a nice view.”

“I think I prefer this one,” he said, gazing around the living room. His smiled fondly at the sofa, and she thought he was probably remembering the night she brought him back here, their first time. He had said both of their names that night, and they were going to make him say them again now, over and over, almost every night.

Shawn came in from the kitchen, still carrying the Thai takeout he'd brought home, but now loaded down with plates and silverware as well. “Jules, a little help—I'm hungry and my hands are full.” She took the bag that was hooked over his thumb and started to unload boxes and containers while he set down the pile of utensils, rubbed off his hands together (his left one carefully, as his fingers were still splinted), and then stepped up to Carlton, throwing his arms around his neck and pulling him down for a long, deep kiss. “Mmm,” he sighed as he let go, pressing a second kiss to Carlton's throat. “Delicious. And now, for the food.”

Carlton smiled and followed him to the sofa. “Don't worry,” he assured him as they settled down. “I'll give you something for your mouth in just a little while.”

“Uh, yeah, that would be dessert,” Shawn said in his 'duh' voice, licking a bit of sauce off his thumb.

That reminded her. “Did you get the syrup, Shawn?” Juliet asked casually. 

He sat up. “Did I get the syrup? The chocolate syrup, in the squeeze bottle? That delightful, delectable, drippy mess that's only suitable to clean up with my tongue?” He grinned. “I got the monster, econo-family-size one.”

Carlton snorted. “I'll bet you did. And I bet you're going to use it all, too.”

“What better way to welcome you back, Lassie?”

Juliet couldn't have agreed more. “Absolutely,” she said. “Welcome home, Carlton.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and looked at her and Shawn on either side of him. He seemed to struggle with something else to say, and then he just smiled again. “Thank you.”

They started to eat; five minutes later Juliet and Shawn glanced at each other, him tilting his head, her starting to grin. Carlton saw them and set his plate down, starting to grin himself. The rest of dinner was cold, but they were warm together.

  
_Who could ask for any more? Who could have more?  
We must reinvent love  
—Panic At The Disco, "[Mad As Rabbits](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHN44pvomwE)"_


End file.
